


The Power of Self Respect

by IceEckos12, PitViperOfDoom



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crack Treated Seriously, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, M/M, Past Abuse, Queerplatonic Relationships, Scott Pilgrim AU, Stalking (not by Jon), Temporary Character Death, past unhealthy relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 56,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29089266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceEckos12/pseuds/IceEckos12, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PitViperOfDoom/pseuds/PitViperOfDoom
Summary: Jon's life has never been easy, but he's now in a place where he has friends, his job isn't wretched, and best of all, he's dating Martin Blackwood. Things are finally starting to turn around for him, so of course that's when he learns that he must defeat Martin's seven exes in order to stay with him.There's something fishy about this whole thing, Jon is sure of it. But the only way to find out what is to throw down the gauntlet and fight for his love.
Relationships: Gerard Keay & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay & Melanie King, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Melanie King & Jonathan Sims, Oliver Banks/Gerard Keay, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 90
Kudos: 238





	1. Jonathan Sims vs the World

The thing was, up until this point, Jon’s life had been one unlucky break after another.

He _knew_ that other people had it much worse than he did, and he didn’t mean to...to minimize or compare his situation to theirs. It was just—he couldn’t think of a genuine high point, a time when he fit comfortably into his place in life. He felt as though he’d been wading through a monotonous stream of disappointment and setback for as long as he could remember.

Which was why he was currently having trouble adding his current situation to the past sum of his life.

Martin’s arm was warm in his, his sweet laughter echoing through London’s darkening streets, cheeks flushed from the alcohol or the light chill or something else entirely. He wasn’t normally the type to relax, but in this moment he looked carefree, unburdened by stress or anxiety, and it was a beautiful sight to see. Jon felt strange and floaty and giddy as he stumbled along beside him, and it was only partially because of the alcohol.

The math...didn’t quite add up, did it? Surely that wasn’t dour, sour Jonathan Sims cozied up with the handsome and lovely Martin Blackwood, full of good food and warm from drink, walking home after their _third date._

“You’re not serious,” Martin wheezed, looking torn between amusement and bafflement. “You don’t _really_ give all your cats titles, do you?”

Jon blinked slowly, trying to remember how they’d gotten on the subject through the tipsy fog. “So what if I do?” he asked, a tad defensive. “It’s—it’s dignified.”

“Cats are _not_ dignified,” Martin argued. “You’ve seen those stupid cat videos where they’re always—always falling off ledges, and making funny noises, haven’t you? You seem like the type.”

There was a lurch somewhere deep in his chest at the thought of someone knowing him well enough to guess at one of his habits. After a moment, he decided that he didn’t mind it, and conceded the point with a pleased nod. Then, bolstered by liquid courage and the warmth of the man at his side, he intoned, _“Yaaaas.”_

The sound that Martin made in response to that was _incredible._ He sputtered in shock, words falling gracelessly over each other, and then started cackling so hard that he doubled over, half-leaning into Jon’s side. Jon grinned, stupidly pleased by the reaction, wrapping his arm around Martin’s waist to keep him upright.

They were both so caught up in each other that it took them longer than it should’ve to notice the person who stepped into their path. Jon saw the figure first, straightening with a frown at the sight of the hunched shoulders, the nervous fidgeting, the way the stranger was furtively avoiding their gazes.

Martin’s laughter petered off when Jon’s grip around his arm suddenly went tight. He looked down at Jon, smile fading into confusion, then followed his gaze—and paused uncertainly.

“Um...hi, Martin,” the stranger said, giving a half-hearted, awkward little wave. He was tall, dressed all in black, wearing dozens of intricate braids tied back with a leather band. Even to Jon, who was normally terrible at judging these sorts of things, he was extremely handsome, from the sharp cut of his cheekbones to the richness of his warm, dark eyes.

Martin stared blankly at him for a moment longer—and then his eyes widened with stunned recognition. _“Oliver?”_

Oliver winced, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else, and turned to Jon. “And you must be Jon?”

Jon glanced at Martin, not liking the growing unease on his face, the way his grip had gone almost too-tight. “Yes?”

“Oh,” Oliver said, wilting. “Right. I’m—I just wanted to let you know, I’m really, _really_ sorry about this.”

“ _Oliver,”_ There was a note of warning in Martin’s voice now, a silent plea to explain.

“I, um.” Oliver scratched the back of his head. “I’m supposed to challenge you, Jon?”

Jon stared back at Oliver, suddenly wishing that he was sober enough to understand what the hell was going on—

The world _twisted,_ a sickening lurch of color and darkness, swallowing them up in a way that unearthed some form of primal, ancient fear. Jon tried to breathe, to _focus,_ but the guttural roar of the wind stole the very air from his lungs, and it was all he could do to clutch onto Martin, deaf and blind, chest screaming with pain—

And just like that the pain, the strange twist of sensation, left him all in a rush, leaving his mind feeling strange and disoriented, legs wobbling, which was _really_ not helped by the lingering tipsiness. He probably would’ve fallen over if not for the fact that he and Martin were leaning against each other, propping each other up.

“Oh,” Oliver’s voice said, faint and awed. “I...was not expecting that.”

Jon cracked one eye open—and then straightened, despite the lingering dizziness, jaw going slack at what he saw.

“Martin,” he whispered, fumbling at Martin’s shoulder with numb fingers. “Martin!”

Somehow, from one second to the next, the world around them had changed _._ Where before there had been the dreary, iron-grey streets of London, endless fields of ebony grass rippled as far as the eye could see. Spindly trees reached for the dark sky overhead, their branches crooked and ashy and devoid of life, except for enormous black crows, which cawed and circled overhead like portents of the culmination of mortality. And looming above it all, cradled in a hazy bed of stars, was the red face of the moon, highlighting the world in ragged streaks of rust.

They stood in an empty glade, hemmed in by wrought iron black gates, which were secured with a thick chain that looped several times through the bars. _We are at the apex of it all,_ something whispered in the back of Jon’s mind.

“Oliver, what the _hell_ is going on?” Martin demanded, pulling Jon out of his scrutiny.

“I’m sorry!” Oliver said, wringing his hands in front of him, looking genuinely upset. “I’m sorry, they had pictures of my _house_ —”

“Okay, hold on,” Jon interrupted, holding up his free hand in the universal gesture to _stop._ He turned to Martin, who was looking understandably wild around the edges. “Martin, who is this?”

Martin glanced down at him, and though his eyes were on Jon, his gaze was somewhere very far away. “This is…”

“Oliver Banks,” Oliver jumped in, apparently taking pity on Martin. “Martin and I dated in secondary school.”

“Oh.” The sound was automatic, lacking any sort of meaning, an acknowledgement that something had been said. Then the words registered, and Jon looked back at Oliver, studying him with new clarity. _“Oh.”_

“Yeah, _oh,”_ Martin parroted. The upset in his voice suddenly made a lot more sense.

Before Martin could say anything else, Jon to the still fidgeting Oliver, lips twisted into a distressed frown. “So what is this all about? _Who_ has pictures of your house?”

The relief in Oliver’s face at being given a chance to explain himself was almost painful to look at. “A-a week ago or so I got a really, _really_ weird letter, but it, it didn’t have a return address or anything so I threw it out.” He let out a high-pitched, breathy laugh that was just shy of hysterical. “I got another letter a few days later, and they—they sent pictures of my house, where I worked, copies of my most recent bank statement…”

Oliver’s apparent misery was obviously appealing to Martin’s sense of compassion, because the fear and suspicion were slowly replaced by tentative sympathy. “Oliver, that’s _awful.”_

“What did the letter say?” Jon prompted, squeezing Martin’s arm, wishing that he could be more sober than he was.

Oliver darted a look toward Martin, then focused on his black boots, scuffing the toe in the dry dirt. “It said that you’d gotten a new boyfriend, and that you were—” His face twisted in disgust. “That it wasn’t _allowed,_ and we, as your exes, were responsible for putting a stop to it. _”_

Martin went perfectly still, little better than a statue.

“I’m sorry, Martin, I’m so sorry.” Oliver folded his arms around his elbows, looking small and positively wretched. “I can’t—I can’t afford to fight them—”

“Who?”

Jon glanced up at Martin, concerned by the numb distance in his voice, the sudden, unreadable blankness of his face.

Oliver shook his head. “Like I said, it didn’t have a return address or a signature. There was only the letter ‘P’ at the bottom, if that means anything to you.”

For a moment he didn’t say anything, just kept his gaze locked on the ground, lips pressed into a tight, unhappy line. “Shit,” he said, and then again, _“Shit.”_

“The rules are that we have to participate in some sort of challenge,” Oliver continued, voice slipping into dry academia as he spoke. Jon got the feeling that this was a man who was used to lecturing. “And you’ll both be released as soon as the challenge is completed.”

Jon licked his dry, chapped lips. “And the stakes?”

“If you win, you and Martin can stay together.” It was obvious how much Oliver hated that idea even as he said it. “If you lose, then you can never see each other again.”

Well, that seemed a bit silly, considering that they were coworkers. “How is this going to be enforced?”

“Trust me Jon,” Martin interrupted, and he sounded so tired that Jon couldn’t help but look over in concern. “You don’t want to know.”

“Oh,” Jon said awkwardly, shuffling his feet, wincing at the sound of his soles scraping in the gritty earth.

“I thought about the wording a lot, and I think you can pick anything you want,” Oliver suggested, brightening now that they’d gotten past the horrible talking bits and could move on to resolving the situation. “I can tell you a game that I’m really, really terrible at.”

 _Any game, huh?_ Jon thought. Out loud he said, “No, I think I know what I want.”

Oliver raised one curious eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Chess,” Jon said firmly.

“ _What?”_ Martin squawked, just as Oliver perked up and said, “Chess it is, then.”

Jon wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it _definitely_ wasn’t for the dry, dusty earth beneath them to start rattling, tiny pebbles skittering into the grass and out of sight. He grabbed Martin’s arm and backed them back against the fence just as cracks began to split the ground in front of them, bulging and roiling sinuously, like a great snake was writhing beneath the earth.

Something enormous and dark broke through the surface, sending up wide arcs of rubble. Strains of something bright red pulsed from the depths of the shadows, mingling with the cold, sanguine light of the moon, bathing their surroundings bloody again and again, like crimson waves washing up onto the shore. The dark things twisted and folded, rearranging themselves into strange shapes that were still so familiar…

The image resolved.

There were two crude benches, a circular table, and exactly thirty-two little shapes on its surface that, if you squinted, resembled the iconic chess pieces. Piles of dirt and branching cracks spread out from the strange construction in all directions, the only evidence of its sudden, violent creation.

Martin was the first to break the silence. “What...the _fuck.”_

“I was wondering how that would work,” Oliver commented idly.

Jon took a deep, bracing breath, then another. He rolled up his sleeves and stepped forward to take a seat at one of the benches, only to be halted by a hand at his elbow.

“ _Jon,”_ Martin hissed.

“We— _I_ have to do this, right?” Jon lifted his chin, hoping that Martin couldn’t feel that his hands were shaking.

Martin looked between the two of them, and the helplessness in his eyes made Jon want to wrap him in a comforting hug, tell him that everything was going to be alright. Then Martin leaned in and said, “Jon, you’re still—you’re still drunk, aren’t you?”

Jon blinked owlishly at him. The concern hadn’t even occurred to him, though he supposed that was something people would normally be worried about. “Don’t worry,” he said, squeezing Martin’s arm with a wry smile. “This is _not_ the most drunk I’ve ever been while playing chess.”

Martin gaped soundlessly—but then glanced at Oliver, who was waiting patiently at the table, and shook his head. “I _really_ wish that I’d learned this information in literally _any other context.”_

“It’s not that big of a deal?” He scratched the back of his neck. “I was in a chess club in uni, and we’d play drinking games during matches on weekends. You tend to improve very quickly when you have that sort of incentive.”

“Oh my _god,”_ Martin whispered, looking torn between delight and horror.

“Anyway.” Jon drew himself up again and gave Martin a hopeful look. “Wish me luck?”

He was rewarded with a long, unreadable look—and then soft, warm lips were being pressed against his cheek. His heart immediately leapt into his throat, and he knew he was probably, mortifyingly, flushed all the way to his ears.

Martin retreated and squeezed Jon’s hand, giving him a reassuring smile. “You’ve got this.”

 _Well._ There was no way Jon could lose now.

He took his seat on the weird, pulsing bench, bouncing a little to test its sturdiness; it didn’t even twitch, taking his weight easily. The surface of it was strangely smooth and cool, which he hadn’t expected, considering its poisonous appearance.

“Ready?” Oliver asked, folding his hands neatly in front of the board.

Jon peered down at the pieces. His side was notably more silver than the other, which he supposed meant that he was white. A hand dropped onto his shoulder, and he glanced up at Martin, who looked back at him resolutely. “Ready.”

“You’ll have to remind me of the rules,” his opponent said, watching carefully as Jon moved his first piece. “I haven’t played in ages.”

“Of course,” Jon said politely, and then proceeded to thrash Oliver more soundly than he’d ever done in his entire life.

* * *

On the suggestion of his second therapist, Jon attended a support group for a few months. He never spoke up at any of the meetings, loathe to be vulnerable in front of a room full of strangers whose pains put his own to shame, but listening to others’ stories helped. Each meeting saw him sitting as far back as the assembled chairs allowed, stewing in the quiet fear that he’d catch someone’s eye by accident, and a room of expectant faces would turn upon him.

And then one day, someone sat down next to him. He was striking: tall, lanky, all tattooed hands and dyed hair and faintly scowling black-lined eyes. There were plenty of empty chairs, and Jon was always careful to surround himself with them on all sides, so this man could only have sat next to him if he meant to.

Neither of them spoke. The man barely spared him a glance. By the time the meeting was fully underway, Jon had forgotten he was there at all.

He only remembered about twenty minutes later, when he muttered a joke under his breath. Nothing disparaging—he’d heard the opportunity for a pun and privately taken it, too quietly to reach beyond the three-chair radius around him. He was therefore surprised when his new seat partner snickered under his breath, and that was when Jon looked over and met someone’s eyes for the first time since he’d started attending.

He’d never ended up speaking at any of those support group meetings, but now as Jon swept into the living room of their shared flat and flopped down across Gerry’s lap, he couldn’t argue with the results.

Moments later, Gerry’s fingers came down to brush Jon’s hair out of his face and tuck it behind his ear. One of the couch cushions dipped slightly, and a set of familiar paws came walking lightly along Jon’s spine. After a few seconds of kneading, Dame Nevermore curled up between his shoulder blades with a purr he felt down to his bones. Only when she settled did Jon heave a sigh and let himself relax.

“Never a good sign,” Gerry remarked. “Did the date go alright?”

In spite of himself, Jon choked out an awkward little laugh. Of course Gerry would ask about that. Jon had been pacing himself to a distraction that afternoon, because third dates were crucial, weren’t they? First dates were first impressions, second dates were second chances, but a third date meant _direction—_

And now, late into the evening, his nervousness felt very far away, and not for the reasons he would have hoped.

“The date… the date went fine,” Jon replied truthfully. “It went great. Couldn’t have gone better.”

“That’s good.” Gerry’s voice was carefully neutral, carefully not a question.

“I think it’s going well, overall?” Jon forged ahead, forcing brightness into his tone to muffle his own dread. “Martin’s—he’s wonderful, really. I-I know this is only the third date, but, he’s so—he’s attentive, and thoughtful, and he doesn’t seem to mind if I start to get off track, you know how I get—”

“Always a requirement,” Gerry mused.

“Right! Right. Rarer than you’d think. And Martin’s not just patient, he actually listens. Like he’s not just humoring me, or waiting for me to finish, he’s actually interested in what I have to say.”

“Sounds like a catch,” Gerry remarked.

“God, yes. I was so lucky to meet him.” The cat on his back shifted slightly, and Jon lamented his decision to lie down like this. He couldn’t reach her for petting.

“I don’t doubt it,” said Gerry. “So what’s got you down now?”

“His ex challenged me to a fight, and he’s got six more who’ll do the same.”

Gerry’s hand stilled in his hair.

“Jon,” he said after a moment. “What the fuck?”

“Apparently,” Jon went on, “he’s got seven of them. Exes, I mean. And if I want to keep dating him, I’ve got to defeat all of them.”

“And you’re sure about that?” Gently Gerry took hold of his chin and tilted his head until they were seeing eye-to-eye. “This isn’t just a case of some jealous asshole who’s angry about getting dumped?”

“He didn’t seem all that angry, to be honest,” Jon replied. “Insisted very strenuously that he didn’t want to be there, either.”

“And you couldn’t walk away?”

“Oh, no, we didn’t really have that chance,” Jon replied. “Turned the whole park into a battlefield. Red moon, iron-wrought gates, that sort of thing. Looked like an album cover, you’d have loved it.”

“Jesus,” Gerry muttered. “And you got out of that? Because—not to cast doubt or anything, but for someone who just got in a fight, you don’t have a mark on you.”

“Oh, we just played a round of chess,” said Jon. “He lost very gracefully.”

The noise Gerry made was short and muffled, which made it all the more impressive that he could fit so much doubt into it.

Jon reached up and caught his hand, squeezing gently in the hopes of reassuring him. “I mean it,” he said. “I’m fine. It was a bit of a shock, and I won’t say I’m not worried about what comes after this. But I handled it.”

“If you say so,” Gerry sighed, squeezing back. “What about Martin?”

Jon swallowed the noise that was nearly punched out of him. His heart sank, no matter how much levity he tried to force. “Oh, well, Martin… he’s fine? I saw him off at the station.”

“Seriously?” Gerry sat up straight with a scoff. “Just like that? You get assaulted in the park by his ex and he just skips off home?”

“He didn’t—he was hardly skipping.” Reluctantly Jon sat up as well, as slowly as he could to keep from dumping the cat off his back. She climbed down reluctantly, claws catching in the fabric of his cardigan, before clambering around to reach Gerry’s now vacant lap. “He seemed very upset about it, and I didn’t want to press him so soon. We’ll—we’re going to talk about it later.”

Gerry raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re sure about that?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Jon said firmly. “I just don’t want to push him, not yet.”

Gerry lowered his chin and fixed Jon with a hard stare. Jon thought about looking away, but it was hard to hide when Gerry looked at him like that. It left him feeling exposed and raw, though not painful, not the way—the way some people did. Gerry’s scrutiny never left wounds, no matter how intense or angry he was

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” said Gerry. “No skirting the issue, got it?”

“I won’t,” Jon murmured. He couldn’t lie back down, now that their cat had claimed Gerry’s lap, but his friend’s shoulder was inviting as it always was. Jon settled his head into the space there, and Gerry shifted to wrap his arms around him in a loose hug. Only then, curled up together on the couch with their cat draped across both their laps, did Jon feel the jittery tension drain away. He thought about Martin, about how shaken he’d looked after Oliver left, and wondered if he had someone to hold him through it.

He hoped he did. But if he didn’t, well. Jon could make up for that tomorrow. And the day after that. After all, he’d gotten through one challenge, hadn’t he? He could do this six more times. Simple. Easy. Just—one problem at a time.

“Seriously?” Gerry broke the silence. “You. Fighting six people.”

Jon scoffed quietly. “I’ll hardly be taking them all on at once.”

“You’ve got twiggy arms, Jon, I don’t think it matters.”

“They are not twiggy!” Jon spluttered.

“Fine, spindly.” Gerry wrinkled his nose, ruthlessly teasing, and Jon made the mistake of raising his head to glare at him.

Looking Gerry in the eye, it was hard to miss the worry there.

With a sigh, Jon let his head fall back into the crook of his neck. “I’ll be fine, Gerry. I promise.”

“Have you ever thrown a punch in your life?” he asked.

“I’ve… maybe? I’m sure I have.” Jon pursed his lips. He must have gotten into scuffles as a child, right? He’d certainly gotten in trouble for everything under the sun, and he’d never been one for patience.

Calling Gerry’s expression ‘skeptical’ was a gross understatement. “Right then.” He let go of Jon, shifted over, and held up his hand, palm out. “Let’s see it.”

“What?”

“Best shot, right here.” Gerry tapped his palm. “Hard as you can.”

“Gerry, I don’t think—”

“Humor me?”

Jon sighed. “Fine.” Reluctantly he sat up straight, curled his hand into a fist, and hit the palm of Gerry’s hand as hard as he could. Satisfied with the dull, meaty smack it made, he turned to Gerry and found his friend staring at him in abject dismay.

“Jon,” Gerry said morosely. “Why the fuck is your thumb on the inside of your fist?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Jon did his best not to sound defensive.

“Right. Get up.” Gerry heaved himself up off the couch. Dame Nevermore, fed up with all the tossing and turning, jumped down and trotted away. “Stand up, over here.”

Grudgingly, Jon got to his feet. “I really don’t see how this is necessary,” he grumbled. “I didn’t even have to fight him, so what makes you think I’ll have to—”

“You never know,” Gerry cut him off. “Besides, this is an important life skill. Frankly, I’ve been remiss not to make sure you already had it.”

“Gerry,” Jon said wearily.

“Jon.” Gerry grinned at him with all his teeth. “The idea is, when you’re punching someone, to break something of theirs, not yours. And we’re not leaving this room ‘til you get that.”

Jon sighed again. “Fine. If it’ll make you feel better.”

“It will! Now, lesson one: thumb goes on the _outside_ of the fist. And only punch with the first two knuckles, for Christ’s sake.”

* * *

Jon straightened the lapels of his jacket as he walked into the cafe, taking in his surroundings. The walls were a deep, warm brown, interspersed with tasteful pieces of art, illuminated more by the light that streamed in through the windows than the artificial bulbs overhead. Tables were sprinkled around, some pressed into cozy nooks, some in the middle of the carpet, and the distances between them allowed for some modicum of privacy, as long as one spoke in a low voice. The overall effect was a quiet, homey atmosphere, clearly meant to encourage calm, easy conversation.

Jon was pretty sure a welcoming atmosphere couldn’t stop him from feeling nervous, though. In fact, the uneasiness only increased when he saw Martin sitting there, eyes distant, already holding a cup of what was presumably tea between his palms.

“Hi,” Jon said as he approached, frowning when Martin jumped at the sound of his voice. “Have you been waiting long?”

Martin immediately shook his head with a self-deprecating smile. “No, I...I, um, wanted to get here a bit early. Collect my thoughts, you know.”

Jon’s frown deepened. He didn’t like the idea of this conversation being another source of stress for Martin, not when he was already so worried about his exes trying to control his love life. “I see. I’ll go order, then?”

Martin nodded, looking like a man about to be sent off to the gallows, eyes shadowed with deep bags, mouth drawn in a tight, unhappy line.

Jon headed over to the counter, trying not to ruminate too much over the dread he saw in Martin’s eyes, the resignation. This was a terrible situation, and no doubt if Jon was in Martin’s place he’d be preparing himself for a polite but firm rejection. And...honestly, If he liked Martin any less he probably would’ve decided that it was far too much trouble and called the whole relationship off.

The problem was that Jon didn’t want to call it off. He’d spent weeks cultivating his affection, choosing over and over again to let its roots creep through his whole body and sink into his bones. Now there was a flower blooming over Jonathan Sims’ heart, lovely and sweet but determined all the same, and the thought of killing it prematurely made him feel cold and prickly all over.

That split second before Martin’s unceremonious departure, when their gazes had met and Jon had seen the fear, the resignation—well. He’d felt the almost overwhelming urge to reassure Martin, to make sure he knew that Jon wasn’t planning on going anywhere, that he was willing to face the rest of Martin’s exes if it meant they could be together. And after long, careful deliberation, that urge had settled into the determined desire to make good on that silent promise.

So here he was, sitting in front of Martin, fiddling with the sleeve around his cup of tea. Preparing to have the ex talk, which was something he normally wouldn’t have initiated until well after they’d started going steady.

Jon took a deep breath. “I’m sorry to have to ask you this—”

“No,” Martin immediately interrupted, shaking his head. “No, I was going to have to talk to you about Jane anyway, just—ugh. God. I can’t believe this is happening.”

Jon glanced down at Martin’s hand. It was just sitting there on the side of the table, not doing anything. He imagined taking it, smoothing his thumb reassuringly across the knuckles. “I’m sorry,” he said helplessly. “This must be...awful for you.”

An heavy sigh. “No, it’s not your fault. I suppose I should’ve expected this, you know? It’s always one more thing.” He peered morosely out at Jon from underneath his dark fringe. “I wouldn’t blame you if you, um. Wanted to stop seeing each other. This is...a lot.”

Jon impulsively reached out and took Martin’s hand in his, and the blank, shocked look he received in response was both gratifying and slightly terrifying. “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere, not unless you want me to.”

The smile that broke across Martin’s face was small, watery, and helplessly relieved, and the certainty that he’d made the right decision solidified.

“So, Jane?” Jon prompted, squeezing.

Martin swiped a hand across his dry cheeks and nodded, jaw set with determination. “Right. Right. Um, I dated Jane Prentiss for a few months when I was...eighteen? I broke up with Oliver when I was seventeen because I had to quit school—you remember—”

Jon nodded, carefully schooling his expression. Martin didn’t talk about his mother often, but he did know that Martin had had to quit high school when he turned seventeen to take care of her, and that she’d never shown any appreciation for her son’s selflessness. Jon wasn’t usually a spiteful person, and he’d never say this out loud much less to Martin’s face, but he was privately glad that she was dead.

“—and Jane was...you know, she was never nice, but she wanted me around, and at the time I didn’t care about anything else.” Martin took a bracing sip of tea, and Jon rubbed his thumb over Martin’s knuckles experimentally, mentally noting the thready smile it elicited. “But the longer the relationship went on, the more...possessive she got. She started trying to control where I went and who I talked to, and by the end I just….couldn’t put up with it anymore and broke it off.” Martin laughed, a touch of embarrassment in his voice. “She didn’t take it well.”

Jon winced. “Oh no.”

“She, she may have taken my phone and kept me trapped in my apartment for two weeks?” Martin shook his head and laughed, which did nothing to dispel Jon’s horror. “I escaped when she had to leave to get more food, but—god, yeah, it was awful.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jon couldn’t even imagine.

Martin shrugged a dismissive shoulder. “It was a long time ago. But the point is—the point is that she was really jealous, even long after we’d broken up. She’s… well. It’s like Oliver said, she’s, um, _confronted_ pretty much everyone I’ve ever dated since then. I don’t know how she keeps finding out, it’s not like we’re Facebook friends, she just kind of… shows up, whenever I’m with someone new.” His throat bobbed. “It’s gotten ugly before.”

Jon shook his head, not even sure how to respond to something like that. “Shit.”

“Yeah.” Martin nodded. “So—yeah, like I said. I was going to have to warn you about Jane anyway.”

“I appreciate it.”

Martin nodded again absently, eyes going distant. “The next would be...Jared. I think his last name was Hopworth? He was...well, I tried out community rugby one summer, and he was on the same team, and we just sort of clicked? For a few weeks at least. We broke up after I decided that rugby wasn’t really for me. He’s, um—he’s big. Got a lot of...muscles.”

Jon glanced down at his own arm, clad in a pale pink cardigan, which Gerry had so charitably referred to as “spindly”. “Hmmm. I think that I could take him.”

Martin let out a surprised bark of laughter. “You think so?”

“Most definitely. I can throw a punch and everything.” Jon lifted his free arm and flexed, decidedly not mentioning that he’d learned how to do so only yesterday.

“My knight in shining armor.” Martin shook his head, an amused smile still playing across his lips. Jon sat back in his seat, relieved that Martin was no longer looking so morose. “The fourth would be…” He trailed off, that hard-won smile quickly fading like snow melting in the sun. “Oh, god.”

Another cold lurch of dread. “What is it?”

“He...he wouldn’t.” Martin shook his head, face crumpling with distress. “Oh, but Oliver said—shit. Shit.” He shook off Jon’s grip and dropped his face into his hands, and the absence of that touch in his left him feeling strangely cold. After a moment he lifted his face, and his eyes were bright and miserable again. “Um. Okay, so—”

It was then that Martin was interrupted by the loud, shrill chiming of Jon’s ringtone, cutting through the building tension like a hot knife through butter. They both jumped and stared in the direction of the noise, Jon mutely frustrated that Martin had been interrupted in the middle of explaining what sounded like extremely pertinent information.

“Are you going to get that?” Martin asked dully.

“Yes,” Jon almost-snapped, immediately regretting his tone when Martin curled inward. “Sorry, sorry, I’m just—okay, one second.” He opened his phone and lifted it to his ear, trying to keep the gruffness out of his voice as he said, “Jonathan Sims speaking?”

There was a long moment of quiet, except for the usual backdrop of a city in perpetual motion. Jon frowned, more and more certain that this was just a telemarketer, and he was about to hear the mechanical sounds of a prerecorded message. “Hello?”

Except that...no, there was a sound: the rhythmic, tinny hush of air, inhaling, exhaling, the soft susurrus of a thousand somethings rasping together. Suddenly he became aware that something or someone was on the other end of the phone, and Jon clutched the edge of the table as his stomach bottomed out with inexplicable dread.

“Jon?” Martin whispered.

“ _Tomorrow…”_ someone hissed into the other end of the phone, that strange rasping sound growing louder, dripping and churning around her words. _“Battersea Park...at five.”_

Jon’s jaw worked silently, his chest churning with a heady mixture of fear and indignation. “I have to work tomorrow,” was the only thing he could think to say to that very ominous statement.

There was a low, mocking laugh. _“You can choose to meet your crimson fate head on...or I can take it to you.”_ Jane Prentiss paused—for who else could it be?—and added, her voice silky and coy, _“Unless...you want to give up, that is.”_

Jon glanced up, and his gaze locked with Martin’s, wide and fearful and so very, very dear. It gave him the strength to promise, “I’ll be there,” and hang up the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up: Jonathan Sims and the Rude Awakening


	2. Jonathan Sims and the Rude Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More detailed warnings in the end notes.

Melanie showed up to their usual movie night bearing a case of hard cider and several bags of chips in a variety of flavors. Gerry gave her a long, slow onceover before turning back to Jon, who was curled up on the couch with Dame Nevermore in his lap. “What do you think, Jon, should we let her in?”

Jon bit down on a smile and scratched behind the Dame’s black ears. “Depends on whether or not her offerings have pleased the Dame. What do you think, darling?” he cooed, gently picking up her front half so he could get a better look at her face. “Does this please you?”

Dame Nevermore meowed plaintively, her wide green eyes conveying how little she approved of being manhandled like a stuffed animal. Chuckling, Jon set the Dame back on his lap, where she proceeded to grumpily fold her paws under her chest.

“Looks like you’ve passed muster,” Gerry said dryly, stepping aside to let Melanie in with a flourish. “Come on, then.”

Melanie rolled her eyes, long since used to their antics, and made a beeline for their kitchen, stowing the cider in the fridge to chill. She reappeared with the bags of chips, deposited them onto the table, and finally sat on the couch next to Jon so she could get some quality time with the cat.

Jon and Melanie’s weekly movie nights had been a ritual even before Gerry had been brought into the mix. It had started when Jon was at his lowest point; Melanie’s recurring appearances and constant support had motivated him to be a more active participant in his recovery. Now it was something that Jon took comfort in, a way to relax and unwind with his closest friends.

‘Unwinding’ being...somewhat subjective.

“For the last time,” Jon said impatiently, jabbing his finger in Melanie’s general direction. They’d settled into their usual seating arrangements, with Jon and Gerry curled together on the couch, Melanie in the chair. “We are _not_ watching the Bachelor again. I _refuse.”_

“What’s wrong with the Bachelor?” Melanie cried, throwing her hands into the air. “We get to watch a bunch of unfairly attractive people be mean and spiteful to each other! It’s _fun!”_

“I think you and I have very _different_ definitions of fun,” Jon hissed primly, then rounded on Gerry, whose head was tucked neatly against his shoulder. “Come on, back me up on this. Don’t you want to watch a Ghibli movie?”

_“Actually,”_ Gerry said, mild as a spring day, “I’d just like to point out that technically it’s _my_ turn to pick the movie. So.”

Jon groaned. “Christ Gerry, if I have to watch a campy horror movie _one more time_ then I’m going t _o throw something_.”

Gerry looked up at Jon. Jon looked down at Gerry. _Oh no,_ thought Jon.

“So listen, Melanie,” Gerry said, turning to face her. He wasn’t visibly gleeful, but Jon knew him well enough to see the signs. “Did you know that Jon has to fight _seven people_ to date his new boyfriend?”

Melanie, who’d just had a mouthful of chips, immediately let out a shocked noise and started choking.

“Gerry!” Jon hissed, horrified.

Gerry shrugged blithely, the traitor. “She was going to find out eventually.” 

“I’m sorry,” Melanie gasped out, her face bright red. “Jon did _what?”_

“It’s not my fault!” Jon squeaked. “It’s just—Martin has this, this person who’s trying to control his _love life,_ and they’re apparently going around threatening his exes to challenge me for the right to date Martin or something stupid like that? So now I have to fight the rest of Martin’s exes and it is _not_ his fault.”

“Okay,” Melanie said, gesturing for him to _shut up,_ which he immediately did _._ “Okay, hold on one second. Just…” she shook her head disbelievingly. “I can’t believe...actually no, yes, I _can_ believe. What the _fuck,_ Jon?”

“I know.”

“This is actually one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard, and you’ve done some pretty stupid shit, Jon—”

_“I know.”_

Melanie fell silent, staring, a mix of bewilderment and exasperation in her dark gaze. Then she let out a long, slow sigh and sat back in her chair, pinching the bridge of her nose. “How is this your _life?”_

Jon flinched, but conceded that if anyone had the right to say that, it was Melanie. “I know,” he repeated miserably, feeling a bit like a broken record. He must have sounded pretty pathetic, because Gerry grabbed his hand and squeezed comfortingly.

She lowered her hand from her face and shook her head. “Alright. Explain everything, please. I’d like to know _exactly_ what you’re getting into.”

She was perfectly silent as he laid out the story—Oliver accosting him and Martin on the way home from their third date, the strange world that’d twisted into being around them at the start of the challenge, the harried explanation that followed. She raised an eyebrow at the whole _drunk chess_ thing, but otherwise didn’t give away her thoughts, something that made Jon...a bit nervous, actually. She usually had no reservations about letting people know exactly what her opinion was.

When he finally finished, she was drumming her fingers against the arm of the chair, studying him thoughtfully. Finally she said, with a delicacy that implied she was about to say something she knew he definitely wouldn’t like, “And you’re _sure_ Martin has nothing to do with this?”

Jon frowned at her in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“Listen, I know you like him a _lot,”_ Melanie began slowly. “But—and hear me out, okay? I want you to consider the possibility that Martin might have arranged this to—to...I don’t know, test your loyalty? Play mind games with you?”

Jon gaped silently at her for a moment, so stunned by the accusation that he couldn’t even think to respond. The idea of Martin being behind this was so utterly ludicrous— “He wouldn’t,” He searched helplessly for the words to appropriately express his disbelief, but came up blank. “He _wouldn’t.”_

Melanie’s face scrunched up, before she visibly forced herself to calm down. “Are you sure?”

Jon’s mouth opened, then shut, then opened again. He glanced down at Gerry for help, only to realize, with a jolt of quiet horror, that Gerry was carefully not looking at him.

“Gerry?” Jon whispered.

Gerry hesitated, before pushing up and away from Jon’s side, lips pressed into a tight, unhappy line. “I just don’t want you to get hurt,” Gerry admitted. “And—and listen, people may not be who you think they are, and while I don’t _necessarily_ think it’s true, I also don’t want you to be...to be blindsided. If it is.”

Jon looked up at Melanie, but she was still watching him with calm, dark eyes, kind but immovable. And he could still feel Gerry’s worried gaze on the side of his face, and knew that he was preparing for an explosive denial.

Jon didn’t like to shout in front of Gerry. Brought up too many bad memories.

So he took a deep breath, and then another, twisting his fingers in his blanket, and forced himself to actually think about it. And while the idea of kind, empathetic Martin setting something like this up sent an instant, visceral feeling of repulsion throughout his whole body, he knew that he wasn’t...always the best at reading people. Just because he _thought_ it wasn’t true didn’t necessarily mean that it was.

“I’ll think about it,” he said at last. “I—I really don’t think it’s true, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Good,” Melanie said, nodding brusquely. “That’s the best I can ask for, I suppose.”

When Jon glanced over, he almost winced at the wariness in Gerry’s gaze, the tense set of his shoulders, like he was still expecting to be yelled at. Jon opened his arms, a silent invitation, and Gerry immediately relaxed and shuffled over so he could lean his head on Jon’s shoulder again.

“Alright,” Melanie said, clapping her hands together. “Now that _that’s_ over with. Movie?”

“Movie,” Jon agreed, and then graciously turned to Gerry and said, “You’re allowed to pick, even though you’re a traitor.”

“So generous of you,” Gerry said dryly. _“Young Frankenstein?”_

Melanie shrugged. “Sounds good to me.”

“Fine.” Jon nodded, and lifted the remote, all too happy to put the previous conversation behind him.

* * *

The day went by too quickly for Jon’s liking, though considering how much work he crammed into the hours leading up to the appointed time, that might have been his own fault. He thought that he was being clever when he left work an hour early, only to walk out the door and find Melanie waiting for him outside. At the sight of her, he stopped in his tracks, shock warring with dismay.

“What are you doing here?”

She scowled at him, shoving off of the wall she’d been leaning against. “What’s it look like?” she snapped. “Let’s go.”

“Absolutely not,” said Jon. “There’s no ‘let’s.’ This is my problem, not yours.”

“Never said it wasn’t,” she shot back. “But Gerry has no idea what’s going to happen, and face it, neither do you. Someone has to stand outside and drag you out of there when this goes sideways, and I guess that’s my job, _again_.” Jon flinched, and Melanie’s eyes flickered away for a moment. “We’ll feel better if you’re not alone, that’s all.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Jon asked. “And I won’t be alone anyway. Martin’s going to be there.”

“Good for Martin,” said Melanie. “And by ‘we’ I mean me and Gerry.”

“Oh.” Jon trotted to catch up to her. “Not… not Georgie, then?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Have you told Georgie?”

“Well… no,” Jon admitted. He’d thought about it, more than once. Plenty of insurmountable problems he’d faced in the past shared the common thread of not telling Georgie things. And yet… “Honestly I wouldn't know where to start.”

Melanie snorted. “Don’t blame you. And neither have I. Not like this is _really_ her business, all things considered. Best case scenario, you’ve got six more chess games to win, and she’ll go on with her life never knowing how monumentally stupid you’ve been in the past forty-eight hours.”

For another block, Jon wracked his brain for a way to convince her to go home and let him deal with his own monumental stupidity. Finding none, he resigned himself to having her there.

It was like he had a second, in an old-fashioned duel. Ridiculous, but no more ridiculous than anything else about this.

Battersea Park was a verdant green oasis in the midst of Chelsea’s urban sprawl on the south side of the Thames. It was early September so the trees hadn’t yet begun to turn, and the air tasted sweet and fresh on Jon’s tongue.

It was only when they were walking down one of the paths to the heart of Battersea that Jon realized that he actually had no idea where he was actually supposed to meet Jane. Battersea Park wasn’t just a patch of grass; a dizzying maze of paths stretched out in all directions, which made finding anything all the more difficult.

“So…” Melanie began, raising an eyebrow.

“Um—” Jon frowned at their surroundings, trying to decide whether they should go further in or stay where they were. “I think I’m going to call Martin, see if he’s here yet.”

Luckily, Martin picked up after the second ring. “Jon?”

“Hey,” Jon said. “Are you here yet?”

“I’m very close.” Martin sounded distracted, probably trying to keep half his attention on his surroundings. “Where are we meeting?”

“I can send you a screenshot of my location,” Jon promised. “See you soon?”

“See you,” Martin responded, and hung up.

Jon immediately opened his navigation app and zoomed in to get a clear view, before taking a screenshot and sending it. Then he put his phone away and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, breathing long and deep and slow around the nausea that was currently turning his stomach into knots.

“Alright?” Melanie asked, giving him a knowing look.

“Fine,” he muttered.

“Uh-huh.” She raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “Come on Jon, I’m not _that_ gullible.”

Jon let out a sigh of frustration and ran a hand through his hair. “Listen, I’m not...I’m not going to be _alright_ until all of this is over, so if you don’t want me to lie, then you probably _shouldn’t ask.”_

Luckily, Melanie knew when to back off. “Fair enough.”

They fell silent, lost in their respective thoughts, until someone familiar and very dear called out, “Jon!”

“Martin,” Jon breathed, and opened his arms for a hug. Martin fell into them, and they held onto each other for a moment, Jon taking comfort in the faint scent of tea and something he didn’t have a name for, all the little things that were unique to Martin.

Martin reluctantly pulled away and gave Jon a small, wan smile. He looked terrible, like he hadn’t slept a wink the night before. “Heard anything from Jane yet?”

Jon shook his head. “She never said where we were supposed to meet _exactly?_ I assume that she’ll find us.”

Martin nodded, then turned to look at Melanie, who’d been hovering awkwardly a few feet away. “And you are?”

“Melanie King,” she said, extending a hand to shake, which he did. “Jon and I have known each other for...god, how long has it been?”

“Ah...about three years?”

Melanie tilted her head in acknowledgement. “Three years then. And you must be Martin Blackwood. We’ve heard _so_ much about you.”

“You have?” Martin shot Jon a slightly panicky look. “Wait. _‘We’?”_

“Gerry and I,” Melanie clarified, her lips quirking into a dry smile. “We’re Jon’s closest friends, which unfortunately means we were witness to his _ridiculous_ pining.”

_“Melanie!”_

“We were thrilled when you finally asked him out,” Melanie continued brightly, as though Jon hadn’t spoken. “We love Jon, but I think Gerry was _this close_ to taking drastic action.” Her eyes glinted. “Mind you, we still might be prepared for drastic action, if we need to, for different reasons. If you get my drift.”

Jon covered his face with his hands, mortified, while Martin started sputtering incoherently. _When did I get such awful friends,_ he bemoaned, feeling as though he was about to sink right into the earth, stomach swooping with vertigo.

Wait a moment.

He...he _was_ sinking.

Jon uncovered his face and stared down in horror at the dark, hungry chasm that had opened up beneath him, swallowing him up to his ankles, his _calves,_ consuming more and more with each passing second. The earth squirmed around him, grasping and pulling at him like fingers as it dragged him downward. He reached out for Martin, who was still red-faced and looking at Melanie, but missed, grasping desperately at thin air.

He managed one last, frantic gulp of air, before blackness scrolled over his vision and the world twisted away like a bird taking flight.

* * *

Consciousness came like a slap to the face. Jon sat bolt upright, only to regret it immediately when the blood rushed from his head and left him swaying dizzily until his vision cleared. It didn’t help much, in the end; wherever he was, it was dark and silent, and he was alone.

Jon rose to his feet carefully, eyes wide as he waited for them to adjust. Darkness seemed to shift before his eyes, growing thicker until he blinked and could almost make out the outline of walls and ceilings, vague shapes that could have been anything, and at least one door. Eventually, the shapes settled into recognizable furniture: old shelves, scattered tables and desks, chairs stacked off to the side.

It was nothing like the dramatic environment that Oliver had plunged them into before. If anything, it looked like someone’s basement.

And on top of everything else, it _stank_. It wasn’t a loud and in-your-face reek, but it was mild and persistent and just pervasive enough to be present in everything.

He couldn’t quite put it all into a neat descriptor. It was equal parts moist and stale with that slightest hint of sickly sweetness, like mildew and dust mingling with an undercurrent of rot. Jon rubbed at his arms, grimacing when he found his own skin unpleasantly damp and sticky. He tried to breathe as lightly as he could, and took stock of what he could see.

Not much of use. The shelves were mostly empty, as was the table. He could lift the chairs if he really needed a weapon, though the idea of beating a woman with one didn’t quite sit well with him.

God, he hoped she was fine with board games.

One object of note was on the wall near the door: a single fire extinguisher behind grimy glass. It was one of the smaller ones, so he could probably lift and carry it without too much trouble. If it came to that. Though, considering how damp it was down here, he doubted there was much of a risk of fire.

The waiting finally got to him, impatience winning out over fear. “H-hello?” he called out, hating when the word caught in his throat on the way out. “Jane?”

For a moment, there was no answer. Then—

He heard it first. It tugged at his memory briefly before he recognized it. He’d last heard it over the phone, when Jane called him to throw down the gauntlet: that soft, wet slithering that seeped into him as inexorably as the smell did. He looked around, scanning the dark room for what might be making it, and saw nothing. He looked from the stack of chairs to the extinguisher on the wall. The extinguisher would be more effective, less awkward, but he could grab a chair faster than he could figure out how to get past the glass—

“ _Hello, Jonathan Sims._ ”

He whipped around, pulse hammering in his throat. He was no longer alone; there she was, standing among the shelves in a long coat and a dress that was probably deep red in better light, but down here looked more the color of an old scab. Her hair hung down over her shoulders in lank, stringy tangles, and her eyes—

It must have been the darkness that turned her eyes black, more like empty pits in her face than proper eyes. And yet, he could still feel them _watching_.

“You must be Jane.” He didn’t _think_ his voice was shaking, though with his heartbeat in his ears, he could very well have been wrong.

“Jane Prentiss,” she said dreamily, her voice as soft and sibilant as the noises that still pervaded the air. “Martin must have told you about me. I was his _first_ love.”

That didn’t sound right. “I thought that was Oliver?”

The room shifted, the darkness swirling strangely at the corners of his vision. But then he made the mistake of looking, and realized quickly that the shadows weren’t what was moving.

There must have been thousands of them. On the floor, the walls, crawling out of cracks and holes that Jon couldn’t see but must have been there. The slithering grew from a distant murmur to a hiss, and his stomach turned.

“They were children playing games back then,” she said with a shrug. “That wasn’t love, it was a childish pantomime, easy to break. But what _we_ had… that was something special.” She looked impatient. “You should know this already. Hasn’t he told you this? He must have told you _everything_ about me.”

“R-right, of course, yes,” Jon agreed. Martin had talked about her, beyond just warning him about her. Something about being bi-curious—wait, was it just him, or were the worms coming closer? He could move away, but that would take him closer to Jane. And he didn’t want to be closer to Jane. 

_It’s gotten ugly before,_ Martin had said, but he hadn’t said how, because Jane had called and Martin had looked seconds away from a panic attack afterward, and there just hadn’t been time—

“So, how do we do this?” Jon asked, struggling to stop his voice from shaking. “Oliver let me pick the challenge last time.”

“ _Oliver_ has no stake in this,” Jane said contemptuously, taking away the choice by stepping closer. “I don’t know why he even bothered to summon him—”

“Who?” Jon asked. “Who summoned— _eurgh!_ ” The swarm shifted closer, forcing him a few steps toward Jane.

“Stop _interrupting_ me!” Jane snarled. “Do you think you have more important things to say than I do? More important things to do? I’m _talking!_ ”

Jon leaned back, too afraid to take a proper step.

“Oliver doesn’t matter! He doesn’t have any right to be here with the rest of us. He doesn’t even _care_ about Martin! Not like I do! He left Martin as soon as things didn’t go his way! He didn’t even _fight_ for him!” The swarm roiled as she seethed. “But I stayed, I _always_ stayed, no matter what. And then _he_ gets handed a chance to protect Martin for once, and he doesn’t even _try_. How pathetic is that?”

The swarm crept close enough for Jon to see what they were—tiny silver worms, crawling all over each other to get close to her. They were too tiny to see if they had eyes, but Jon could still feel them watching, all of them, thousands upon thousands of eyes.

“I mean it sounds like it was Martin’s choice,” he said, forcing himself to look away again. “It’s not—you can’t force someone to be with you—”

“ _I know what’s best for him._ ” Jane’s voice changed, splitting into layers as if she spoke in chorus with herself. “I _always_ knew what was best! Who do you think _you_ are? You’re a _nobody._ Some selfish, boring little man who’ll leave him just like all the others!”

“I-I won’t—”

“I’ll prove it.” Her voice sharpened into a hiss again, echoing from all around. “I’ll prove it right now. I’ll let you out, if you give up. If you promise never to speak to him again. I’ll let you out, and you’ll walk away, just like _everyone else._ ”

“No.” The worms were close. Jon itched just watching them, imagining those writhing little bodies crawling on him. “I-I won’t. I won’t do it.”

“Fine.” Jane didn’t move, even as the worms overtook her, crawling up her legs and under her skirt, spilling out onto her neck and hands. “Then you’ll have to find your _own_ way out.”

Jon broke into a run, and with a clumsy flying leap he made it onto one of the tables. Everything itched, but when he clawed at his ankles, he found nothing there but his own skin. When he looked back, Jane was gone, and the floor was fully covered by writhing worms. The door was only a stone’s throw away, but it may as well have been miles.

“ _Give up,_ ” Jane’s voice sang out from all around him. “ _Give up, and you can leave._ ”

Jon gritted his teeth.

He wasn’t _exactly_ stranded. All throughout the poorly-lit room, Jon could see other bits of furniture protruding from beneath the swarm like islands. The table he was currently on was one of them. So were the desks, and the chairs, and the shelves—the upper shelves, at least.

And if he chose carefully, he could just make out a path to the door. From the table to the desk, to another desk, to a stack of chairs, to the shelves. And from there, if he opened the door and moved quickly, he might be able to get out and shut the door behind him.

Jon moved to the edge of the table, braced himself, and tried not to look down as he jumped.

The first landing nearly tipped the desk over, until he froze and gripped the edges to stop it from wobbling. He leapt to the next desk, then braced himself before throwing himself at the stack of chairs.

As soon as he landed on it, he knew he’d made a mistake.

By some miracle he managed to stay on top as it fell, landing in the worms with a we crunch. It must have killed dozens of the things, but there were thousands more to take their place, crawling up the fallen chairs, mindless and hungry and unpleasantly alive.

Jon barely remembered scrambling across the fallen stack and hurling himself desperately at the shelves. He scrambled up them like ladder rungs, heart pounding, until he was sure he was high enough to stay out of reach. The door was within reach, along with the fire extinguisher in its glass case.

The hinges were stuck, so out of desperation he moved as close as the shelves would allow, and kicked it with all his might. By the time the glass began to crack, he was mindless with terror and his foot was nearly numb.

Eventually he leaned out and pulled the fire extinguisher from the mess of broken glass, grazing his hand in the process. By some miracle he managed not to drop it; it might have been small, but it was far heavier than it looked.

He tried the door. Locked.

“That’s not _fair_ ,” he gasped out.

“ _Say the word,_ ” Jane told him. “ _Never speak to him again, and I’ll let you out._ ”

Jon swallowed a sob—terror, rage, he wasn’t sure. This couldn’t be it, there had to be a way out. Could he break the lock with the fire extinguisher? But he couldn’t see one—was there a key hidden somewhere? Another door he hadn’t seen? A window? A—

A _vent_. There, in the other wall. If was within reach, if he could just get to it, with enough time to get it open before the worms got to him.

The worms whispered below him, watching. Waiting.

He struck down with the fire extinguisher, crushing a few dozen more. Not nearly enough to clear a path. But maybe…

It took some gymnastics, both mental and a little bit of physical, just to work the damned thing while still clinging to the shelves. But he managed it, because he had no other choice. He sprayed the surrounding floor with gas, and was rewarded when it dissipated to reveal piles of dead worms in its wake.

Jon lunged at the chance before he could lose his nerve. He landed on piles of corpses, gagging at the feeling of them bursting his shoes. The rest of the worms surged toward him as he cleared a path to the vent. In a haze of panic he smashed and pulled and sprayed, until he had room to breathe and the vent was open and he was pulling himself up and crawling through.

The tunnel was cramped and claustrophobic and nearly pitch-dark, and the only part of the swarm that followed him was the noises. He felt like a worm himself, inching along with what little movement he could manage, to blind to do anything but grope along by touch and smell. All the while, the slithering assaulted his ears from every direction. At any moment the tunnel might open from above and bury him in those tiny, squirming, biting bodies.

Sharp, itching pain dug into his ankle, and Jon nearly lost his head right then and there.

Instead he funneled his panic into movement, pulling himself hand over hand until finally he felt another vent cover before him. With a desperate shove he forced it open and spilled out with a strangled yell.

The fall knocked the wind out of him, but he barely cared. He clawed at his pant leg, pulling it out just in time to see the end of a silver worm protruding from his skin. He pinched it between his fingers and pulled it out, then dropped it on the floor and crushed it beneath the fire extinguisher.

Then, after giving himself a moment, he looked up and took stock of where he was.

The vent had spilled him out into another room, larger and far less cluttered than the last. In fact, there was only one thing in it that he could see: all the way on the opposite side was a small table, on which sat a small object that Jon couldn’t quite make out. The only other thing of note was the nearby door in the adjacent wall, and the noticeable lack of any vents other than the one he’d just come through.

Carefully he stood, winced at the bruises forming from the fall, and made his way forward. The whisper of worms sounded distant now, but it persisted. And now he couldn’t tell where they were coming from. He kept the fire extinguisher at the ready, though he wondered how much gas it had left.

He tried the door. It was locked, obviously.

A third of the way through the room, the floor beneath his feet changed from smooth, cold concrete to square tiles. The tiles stretched across most of the rest of the floor, until it turned to concrete again on the other side. Each tile was marked by a letter, with no discernible pattern to them.

He looked across again. The table sat on concrete, and Jon could now identify the object on it as a key.

Right.

He stood at the edge of the concrete, eyeing the lettered tiles. It had to mean something. A puzzle of some kind?

“What am I supposed to do here?” he murmured, half to himself.

“ _Give up,_ ” Jane taunted. “ _He’s too good for you anyway. Why keep pretending he isn’t?_ ”

Must be a password of some kind. What would she use for a password?

The answer came to him when he spotted the M, just within stepping distance, on the border where tiles meet concrete. Of course. There was only one thing she seemed to care about and one reason either of them were there.

Steeling himself, he set the fire extinguisher on the floor—if this was what he thought it was, he’d need both his hands free—and stepped onto the M tile.

He felt it start to buckle beneath his weight, and sprang back just in time before it fell away in pieces, leaving a jagged hole in its place. All at once, the slithering grew louder and clearer from below, and Jon realized what the game was. One wrong step, and…

His breath came in quick, sharp gasps for a moment, before he forced himself calm again. Right. Martin wasn’t the answer, then. Then what else could it be? What else would she care about enough to—

“ _You don’t_ **_deserve_ ** _him. None of them_ **_ever_ ** _deserved him._ **_I_ ** _saw him at his worst, you know. At his_ **_lowest_ ** _. Everything he is now is because of_ **_me_ ** _, because_ **_I_ ** _made him better. You don’t deserve to know him like that! Not when_ **_I_ ** _was the one who made him what you love!_ ”

“Well, when you put it like that, the answer’s obvious,” Jon muttered.

“ **_What?_ **” Jane barked out, right as Jon stepped onto the nearest J tile.

It held.

It wasn’t too far a jump to the A tile after it. When it held his weight, Jon bared his teeth in an angry smile. Of course. Jane was here for one person, and it wasn’t Martin.

He reached the N, and the E, and was almost two thirds of the way across the tiles when he stepped on the P and fell through the floor.

He went down with a cry, grabbing the nearest edge while Jane’s harsh, discordant laughter rang in his ears. The hiss of the swarm was all around him and beneath him as he dangled, sticking to his skin like humidity. By some miracle the next tile held, though as he struggled back up, it too began to crumble. Jon scrambled back out of the pit while tiles cracked beneath him, only stopping when he returned to the safe E. His struggle had left a larger gap in the floor, and through it he could see the shine of wriggling, crawling silver bodies below.

Her last name was Prentiss, wasn’t it? Martin had said so, he was sure of it. What else would come after Jane?

And then he spotted an unbroken tile on the other side of the gap, and tracked an alternate path to the other side. Incredulity mingled with a sudden, almost irrational anger.

“You have _got_ to be joking,” he whispered furiously, and jumped across to the B.

At least Jane was quiet as he finished the puzzle, spelling out _Blackwood_ with each shaky step.

He grabbed the key, nearly dropping it. Mercifully, even the worms below had quieted as he made his way back across the safe tiles (wavering a little when he had to spell the names backward) and made it back to safe ground. He paused for breath, waited for his pounding heartbeat to ease off a little, and managed to unlock the door after a few tries.

Jon peered cautiously out from behind the door, heart in his mouth, preparing to jump back at the first sign of Jane’s worms. He’d relished the uncharacteristic silence as he’d made his way back over the tiles, but now it was just making him nervous. He kept expecting for her and a wave of worms to leap out of nowhere and devour him until there was nothing left but a pile of white bones, picked clean by thousands of tiny, greedy mouths.

But he neither saw the gleaming, writhing mass, nor heard their constant, sickening susurrus, so he stepped all the way inside, shutting the door behind him.

The room was barren, even more so than the last one had been. There were no tiles, nor places to jump on if the floor became a carpet of hungry, carnivorous worms. What _was_ notable about it was that it was very cramped; the ceiling was very low, so much so that he almost had to crouch to avoid bumping his head, and the walls were claustrophobically close together. There was also a dark, circular hole in the wall across from him, and a heavy trap door which was set into the ceiling.

He had the sudden image of dozens of worms pouring from the hole in the wall, and had to suppress a shudder.

It only took him a couple of steps to get into the center of the room, and he observed his surroundings more carefully to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. It was only then that he noticed that something had been scratched haphazardly into the drywall. There was an arrow pointing toward the hole, and a word which simply read, ‘Lever’.

Jon stared at it for a moment, bemused. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He circled the room a couple of times, something that was very easy considering its size, running his fingers against the wall to make sure there weren’t any hidden buttons or divots. Predictably, the trap door didn’t even deign to rattle no matter how much he yanked on it. 

Jon turned to look back at the hole, at the word which had been carved by some sharp instrument next to it. It was so dark that he couldn’t quite see the end of it, but he thought that the ever present sound of slithering was just a bit louder here.

“I’m not putting my hand in there,” Jon asserted.

_“Then you give up?”_ Jane asked, and it’d been so long since she’d spoken that he half leapt out of his skin in shock.

“Of course not!” he snapped, then groaned in frustration and pushed his hair back. “Of...course not.”

There really wasn’t any other choice, was there? To defeat Jane, he’d have to stick his hand in the ominous hole, and probably get chewed on by a bunch of carnivorous worms.

Jon drew himself up to his full height, but immediately deflated when the top of his head bumped against the ceiling. Shaking the moment off, he meticulously rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, then thought better of it, and secured them back around his wrists. Maybe the fabric wouldn’t be able to stop the worms entirely, but they might give him a couple of seconds, just enough time to prevent himself from being chewed on too badly.

He took one steadying breath, then another, trying to calm the frantic pounding of his heart. _Like ripping off a bandaid,_ he told himself, and shoved his hand in up to his elbow.

Something slimy and wriggling exploded under his hand, and an involuntary cry of disgust escaped from between his lips. _Then_ there was a hot slash of pain in his forearm, and he reached deeper, scrabbling aimlessly for the promised lever. _There had better be a fucking lever,_ he thought hysterically, his arm already swallowed up almost to his shoulder.

Pinpricks of agony exploded across his skin, but he just gritted his teeth, sweat trickling down his temple. For a moment he thought that there really wouldn’t be a lever and he was just letting himself be eaten for no reason, that this was Jane’s idea of a joke—

He half sobbed with relief when his hand finally found purchase, and as soon as he flipped the lever he tore his arm out. There was a split second where his mind went blank, refusing to register the bloody sight in front of him, and then he began digging out the worms that were burying themselves in his flesh, tugging them out as quickly as he safely could and crushing them beneath his foot.

There was one that was still in his arm.

Oh god, there was _one that was still in his arm,_ and he could feel the wrongness of it even if he couldn’t see it.

_I have to get out of here._

There was no guarantee that escaping Jane’s domain would remove the worm, but he wasn’t sure what else to do. He had no idea what long-lasting consequences there would be if it remained there for an extended period of time, and he had no intention of finding out.

He turned around—

And as though it’d been waiting for him to lay eyes upon it, the trapdoor burst open, great waterfalls of silver worms spilling onto the floor in the span of one blink to the next. The darkness behind them shifted, twisting and morphing until it resolved into Jane, and the pressure of the worms made her long, lanky hair and dress twist and flow around her like they were alive.

Her dark maw of a mouth cracked open, and Jon recoiled when he saw the creatures wriggling in her tongue. _“Noooo!”_ she wailed, letting the wave carry her down into the room, which was growing more and more cramped with each second that passed. The hungry creatures were already crawling over his shoes, gnawing at the fabric of his jeans to get at the delicate flesh below. “It’s not fair, it’s _not_ **_fair,_ ** he’s mine! He’s mine, he’s always been _mine!”_

Jon pressed up against the wall, kicking the worms away with his feet. It was only a matter of time before they managed to get past his insubstantial defenses. “Martin’s not an object for you to claim!” he shouted back, voice high and thready with fear.

That only seemed to incense her further, and she lunged unsteadily toward him, hands outstretched, worms dribbling from her grasping fingers. He dodged out of the way and looked up toward the open trapdoor on the other side of the room, which was still bleeding silver, but far more sluggish than it had before.

_Only one way out._

He licked his chapped lips nervously as Jane pushed away from the wall and turned the dark pits of her eyes in his direction. “You’re _nothing,”_ she spat. “Selfish little man, you don’t _really_ care about him, not like me! It’s not _fair!_ ”

“Come get me then,” he goaded, forcing himself not to react when he felt pain lance into his ankle, into the soft meat of his thigh. “If you feel so strongly about it.”

Her face twisted up with a cold, inhuman fury, and she let out a screech and propelled herself forward on a wave of undulating worms, far faster than he’d thought she could move. It was only because he’d been waiting for it that he was able to throw himself out of the way and closer toward the trap door.

Too late, Jane realized what he’d been up to, and her voice was far, far too close as he pulled the collar of his shirt up over his head and started pulling himself through. “It’s not allowed! _It’s not allowed! Mine mine mine mineminemi_ **_nemine_ ** _….”_

Worms thudded onto the thin layer of fabric that was protecting his head, and Jane’s incoherent sobbing was lost in the wet squirming of the mass surrounding him on all sides, thick and suffocating. Pain erupted across his body, but he forced himself onward, knowing that if he stopped for even a moment he’d be unable to continue and this would be his grave.

Even as he pushed through the worms, clawing blindly for freedom, he could feel that he was fading. His limbs weighed a ton each, and he wasn’t even sure if he was going in a direction at all, but stopping was unthinkable. _Keep going,_ he begged his failing body. _Keep going!_

He kicked out, and felt his foot finally impact something more substantial than worm, and suddenly he could smell fresh air, could feel coolness against the tips of his fingers. Galvanized by the idea of being _somewhere else_ , his kicking and clawing intensified, propelling him unerringly onward.

And then his hand pushed through the surface, clumps of dirt raining down on top of him, and he shut his eyes against the blinding brightness. He whined incoherently as his many wounds rubbed up against the layers of grit and rock, even as he dragged himself up and out of the earth and onto solid ground.

_“Oh my god!”_ someone shouted, grabbing his shoulder and yanking him forward. They immediately stopped when his groans turned into a sharp cry of agony. “Christ, Jon! _”_

“I’m so sorry,” someone else said, their voice tearful and terrified in equal measure. “I’m so sorry, this is all my fault, _I’m so sorry.”_

“He doesn’t need your damn _apologies.”_ And he recognized who it was now, though he’d never heard Melanie sound so afraid before. “Call an ambulance!”

“Right!” Martin squeaked, and then fell silent. _Come back,_ he wanted to say, but all he could manage was another groan.

“Just hold on, Jon,” Melanie reassured him tersely. “We’re going to get you some help. Just...hold on.”

“Martin?” Jon coughed, his voice scraping harshly against his brutalized throat. He tried to crack his eyes open, but the bright light of the afternoon sun was still too much.

“He’s coming back,” she promised. “He just needs to finish calling the ambulance.”

“Okay,” Jon whispered. “Okay.”

There was a brief span of silence where a few seconds or a whole hour could’ve passed, before Melanie said, “What the _hell_ happened? You just...disappeared.”

Jon thought about that for a moment, going over it all in his head; the puzzles, the carnivorous worms, Jane’s constant recriminations. Eventually he settled on, “Imagine...an escape room, but with carnivorous worms and a crazy ex-girlfriend.”

Melanie choked. “You’re _kidding.”_

The sound of quickly approaching footsteps had Jon tensing up, even as his whole body screamed in pain at the sudden movement. He only finally relaxed when he heard Martin say, “They said they’d be here soon. How—how is he?”

“I’m not on my deathbed,” Jon complained, and this time was carefully able to open his eyes, just a bit. Martin was kneeling beside him now, his eyes red, his lips cut into a miserable line. He smiled a small, wry smile. “Don’t worry, Martin, I won’t let her _worm_ between us.”

Martin stared at him, his expression blank with shock. Then a tiny giggle escaped from between his lips, then another, and Melanie snorted in disgust, and they were both dissolving into hysterical laughter.

And then Martin was crying, great heaving gasps of relief and guilt, fumbling to take Jon’s hand—the one he hadn’t stuck into a hole full of worms—in his. “I’m sorry, god, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault,” Jon told him, which only seemed to make him cry that much harder.

The worms were gone, he realized giddily. Even the ones under his skin. No more wriggling, no more teeth. Just dirt and blood and fresh air, and Martin beside him, and Melanie keeping watch as the ambulance drew near.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: Jon gets chewed on a bit by worms, and Jane being unhealthily jealous and possessive.
> 
> Next time on The Power of Self Respect: Jonathan Sims Has Some Regrets


	3. Jonathan Sims Has Some Regrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed warnings in the end notes.

Melanie shelled out for a cab ride to his flat without waiting for any input, which was how Jon knew that she was either livid or genuinely worried for him. He wasn’t sure which unnerved him more.

They sat together in silence for most of the ride, Jon holding himself carefully to keep from pressing any of his bandaged injuries. They were superficial, for the most part; the worms hadn’t eaten deep enough to cause serious damage. It didn’t stop them from hurting, and he’d been gently informed that scarring was very likely, especially on his arm.

They were nearly there when Melanie spoke up. “Georgie texted while I was waiting.”

Jon hated the way his heart sank at that. Hearing about Georgie used to be a happy, uncomplicated thing, and he hated the way it twisted at him now. Given his part in the whole debacle, she probably felt something similar.

“I didn’t keep you from her, did I?” he asked.

“No. But she did ask where I was.” The noise he made was not as noncommittal as he hoped, and she shot a scowl at him. “If you’re expecting me to lie to her, you’ve got another think coming.”

“Of _course_ I don’t,” Jon said, pulse jumping with alarm. “I’d never ask you to—no. You can tell her whatever you think she needs to know.” He paused. “Er. How much _does_ she know?”

“Not a lot.” Melanie heaved a sigh. “Believe me, she’s made it _quite_ clear she doesn’t want to get involved in your drama.”

“Probably for the best,” Jon said dryly.

“She’s always had better self-preservation than either of us.” Melanie frowned again. “So she doesn’t know about your whole… tournament battle, or whatever.”

“Also for the best.”

“She does know you’re dating again, though,” Melanie went on. “Couldn’t avoid telling her that one.”

“Oh. She…” Jon hesitated. “She asked?”

“Jon, even when she wasn’t talking to you she still asked about you every now and then.” Melanie fidgeted. “Partly why I kept coming around, back then. Had to bring her regular Jon updates.”

“Oh.” The cab pulled in before he could say more. “Ah, this is me—I can pay for your ride home?”

“Hell no, I’m taking the tube,” Melanie told him. “This was just to make sure you got home without reopening something.”

“Right.” His throat felt thick all of a sudden. “Thank you, Melanie.”

“Don’t mention it. I _mean_ it.”

Melanie lingered just long enough to make sure he got in. He barely had the front door closed and locked behind him when a familiar meow and rhythmic jingling greeted him in the entryway.

“Hello, dearest,” he murmured, stooping carefully to give the Dame a scratch. “No, I’m afraid I can’t pick you up right now.”

He made his way further inside, longing for a change of clothes and whatever variation on a shower he could manage with all the bandages, and found Gerry waiting for him in the living room.

His stomach dropped at the sight. Gerry was curled up on the couch, scrolling listlessly on his phone, his mouth tight in an unhappy frown. As he stepped into the room, Gerry finished whatever he was doing, sat up, and immediately swore.

“ _Fuck,_ Jon, what the hell happened to you?”

There was no way to play this off, not with his arm and neck and face bandaged and patched with gauze. “Nothing good,” he admitted.”Glad it’s over. I sincerely hope I never see her again.”

“Right.” Gerry heaved himself up. “Go on—change, freshen up, whatever you need to do. I’ll make tea and… I dunno, put a frozen pizza in the oven or something.”

Relief unspooled in his chest. “That sounds lovely.”

“Fantastic.” Gerry made a shooing motion with one hand. “Go on. Do what you need to do, then we’ll talk, or whatever.”

Jon complied, even as he wondered what other options lay within ‘or whatever’. It took some time to figure things out, but in the end he fixed the shower problem with a wet washcloth and a great deal of care. Finally he gingerly put on a fresh set of clothes and went back out to the living room. The lingering itch made him long for a proper shower. It helped to be at least somewhat clean, but what he really wanted was to stand under scalding water until he could burn away the memory of Jane’s worms.

He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until Gerry refused to put tea in them. Mortified, he curled them into fists in his lap, but the added tension only made the trembling worse.

“What happened?” Gerry asked again, and Jon told him the truth.

By the time he finished, he was leaning up against Gerry’s side, the Dame curled up in his lap and purring noisily. His hands had stopped shaking, mostly because Gerry had taken one of them (his left one, uninjured and free of bandages) between his own. The firm grip kept him grounded as he finished the story, until he could trust himself to pick up his mug and wet his dry throat.

“I have a question for you,” Gerry said when he was finished. “And you’re not gonna like it.”

“Let’s hear it.” Jon smoothed out their cat’s fur with his free hand.

“What if—okay. First off, do you think she really would’ve let you go, if you’d given up?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jon sighed. “Maybe? I think she would have. I don’t—I know this sounds crazy, but I don’t think she _wanted_ to hurt me.”

The noise Gerry made was, at best, doubtful. At worst, it was downright contemptuous.

“I mean, not for its own sake,” Jon explained. “Obviously she was determined to cause me as much pain as she could, but there was a purpose to it, at least in her mind. She was trying to make a point. And if I’d given up, then I’d have proved her point, and there wouldn’t have been any reason for her to continue.”

“What point was that?” Gerry spat.

“That I didn’t care about Martin,” Jon said quietly. “That I’d give him up to save myself.”

Gerry squeezed his hand. “You… you know that’s not what it would have been, if you’d gotten out of there. Right? That’s not—God, Jon, if you’d tapped out it wouldn’t have had anything to do with you not caring.”

“I know, I know. She wasn’t exactly a shining example of fair play. I just…” Jon took a deep breath. “I didn’t want to prove her right. And I really didn’t want to give up on Martin.”

He knew why Gerry went silent at that, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.

“I know what you’re going to say,” he said.

“I just—I’m trying to understand, here,” said Gerry. “You’ve been on two dates with this guy—”

“Three,” Jon corrected.

“Wow, _three_ dates!” Gerry snapped. He stopped, shut his eyes, and breathed for a moment before continuing more calmly. “Look. He’s not—in the scheme of things, you barely know him. He’s not your boyfriend. Why are you crawling through worms for him?”

Indignation welled up at that, but Jon forced himself to swallow it back down. “And what if I don’t?” he gritted out. “What if I just walk away and never see him again? What then?”

“You don’t risk another hospital trip?”

“No, just _think_ about this for a second,” said Jon. “All of this. Someone set this up, someone threatened at least Oliver, maybe more of them—but someone went to all of this trouble, just to stop me from being with Martin. What do you think will happen if they get what they want? D’you think they’ll just, just pat themselves on the back for a job well done, go on their merry way and let Martin get on with his life?” He winced when he gestured hard enough to pull at one of his wounds. “I had to do _something_.”

“But why does it have to be you?”

“Who else is there?” Jon sat back with a sigh, wedging himself into the comfortable crevasse formed by Gerry’s body and the sofa cushions behind them. “And—and maybe I just genuinely want to keep this. I like Martin. I think I could be happy with him. He’s easy to love, if you met him you’d get it. Maybe I just don’t want to give that up.”

“You know it’s not your last chance finding that, right? Plenty of fish in the sea, et cetera.”

“Of course I know that! But…” Jon ground his teeth against his anguish. “Back when—before, with Georgie. I was _happy_ with her. I’ll bet you anything I could have spent my life with her if she’d let me. But then when—when _all of that_ was happening, I ended up just… resigned. And before I knew it, I was sacrificing bits of myself, and…” He took a deep breath, this time to settle himself. “I gave up on things that made me happy, and I didn’t realize she was one of them until she was already gone. I won’t be making that mistake again.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Gerry pointed out.

Of course it wasn’t the same thing. But that didn’t make him any less determined to fight for it.

Before he could form an answer, someone knocked at the door. Gerry got up with a sigh and a muttered “I’ll get it.” Even still, Jon herded the Dame out of his lap and followed him.

He wondered who it could be. Maybe Melanie forgot something? Or Martin—had Martin come to check on him? Or—

It couldn’t be a new challenger, he thought with sudden dread. Not this soon. He wasn’t ready, and there was no way any of them should know where he lived.

_Oliver was sent pictures of his house and workplace,_ he remembered.

He almost hung back, but that would mean leaving Gerry to face whoever it was alone. Steeling himself, Jon went to stand behind him as he opened the door.

Out of everyone he’d been dreading—Martin mentioned an ex who played rugby, or maybe Jane was back to demand a rematch—Jon hadn’t expected to see Oliver there, shifting from foot to foot like he wasn’t sure he should be there.

Gerry gripped the door and carefully shifted his stance, both to place himself squarely between them and stretch to take advantage of his height. Oliver was tall, but not quite as tall as Gerry.

“Can I help you?” Gerry asked.

“Um.” Oliver stared at him for a moment, wide eyes flickering up and down as he took in the whole of him. Then he caught sight of Jon over Gerry’s shoulder, and he seemed to remember why he was there. “Can I… I just wanted to talk. I heard about what happened, with Jane.”

Gerry hesitated, the door edging shut again, before Jon stepped forward. “It’s fine,” he said. “He’s…” He shot a quick glance at Oliver, who was now wincing at the sight of bandages. “He’s not like she was.”

“Alright,” Gerry murmured, and stepped aside to let Oliver in.

Oliver was appropriately charmed when the Dame came out to say hello, which put Jon further at ease. He didn’t think Oliver came here for a fight, considering how their challenge had gone. Of course, he hadn’t been remotely prepared for what happened with Jane, either, so he might need to readjust his expectations.

But Oliver proved to be a polite guest, leaving his shoes at the door and everything. It helped that he looked even more uncomfortable to be there than Jon did. Gerry hovered, but he seemed more curious than hostile, at least.

“Glad you’re in one piece,” said Oliver, with an uneasy look at Jon’s visible injuries. “Sorry about her.”

Jon shrugged, wincing when it pulled at some of them. “It’s not as if you sent her after me.”

“Did you?” said Gerry.

“God, no.” Oliver fidgeted. “Do wish I’d prepared you better. Like if I’d… I dunno. Warned you?”

“Honestly, even if you had, I don’t know if it would’ve helped,” said Jon. “That was…”

“Yeah,” Oliver said with a dry laugh. “She gets nasty.”

“Do you know her?” Jon asked.

Oliver winced. “Yeah. We worked at the same shop one summer. But also… if you’ve dated Martin Blackwood then you’ve met Jane Prentiss.”

“But you were with him before she was,” said Jon.

“I was. She didn’t like that.”

Jon found his attention drawn to Oliver’s hands, his face, every bit of skin his outfit left exposed. “Did she ever…?”

“No. Not like that. Not like you.” Slowly, Oliver was starting to relax. It probably helped that Gerry had stopped glaring. “I think I got off easy, compared to how she went off on some of the others. She just hated that I, um, ‘had him first.’” He pulled a face, and Jon couldn’t help but mirror it.

“Sounds like a real shitstain,” Gerry remarked, startling a small laugh out of Oliver. “Absolute rat bastard.”

“That’d be one way to make her worse,” said Oliver, wrinkling his nose. “If she had rats instead of worms.”

“At least rats couldn’t crawl under the skin,” Jon said, and regretted it immediately when the thought made him retch.

“Jesus, Jon, don’t die _now,_ ” Gerry scolded, steadying him as he got his gag reflex back under control.

“Sorry, sorry.” Jon retrieved his tea, now just on the edge of lukewarm. A few sips settled his throat.

“What about the others?” Gerry asked. “Martin’s other exes. Is there anything you can tell him about them?”

Oliver’s face fell. “No,” he admitted. “I really wish there was. But I only knew Jane by coincidence, and unlike some people, _I_ don’t keep tabs on who my exes are dating.”

“Guess that’s a point in your favor,” Gerry said with a quiet sigh.

“Ha, right, yeah.”

A point in his favor perhaps, but it didn’t help Jon. “Well, then what about the one who—”

He was interrupted by another knock at the door.

Gerry knocked his head back against the couch, exasperated. “Fuck’s sake, who is it now?”

“Might be Melanie,” Jon called after him as he got up to answer it. “I think she left a jacket here last week, I keep forgetting to tell her.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“What were you saying?” Oliver asked once Gerry was gone.

“I was wondering if you knew anything else about whoever sent you those letters,” said Jon. “Since they had direct contact with you, at least…?”

Oliver shrugged helplessly. “I really don’t. Honestly, I hadn’t thought about Martin in years, I mean we were just _kids_ —”

Gerry came scrambling back into the room. “Jon. Spiderfuck incoming.”

Jon’s stomach flipped in on itself. “ _What?_ Why now?”

“Hell if I know!” Gerry tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Should we stay quiet? Maybe she’ll think we’re not home.”

“She knows my schedule. And the fridge is empty, so we’ll have to leave eventually.” Jon got up. “Nothing for it. Bedroom window faces the alley, so if I’m quick and she’s distracted…”

“Got it. Be careful, don’t re-open anything.”

“I’ll be _fine_.”

* * *

By the time Gerry made it back to the door, he could hear the telltale scratch of the lock being picked. Grimacing, he unlocked it and opened it.

Annabelle Cane stood on the doorstep, as crisp and well-dressed as ever, her hands empty at her sides with no sign of any lockpicks. “Hello Gerry,” she said pleasantly. “Is Jon home?”

Carefully, Gerry drew the door closer. “You know what?” he said, hearing the sound of a window shutting somewhere behind him. “He just left.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” she said with a thin-lipped smile. “I was really hoping to speak with him. It’s an urgent matter.”

“Real shame,” Gerry said flatly. “Well, bye.”

“If you could pass on a message,” she said, halting the door before he could shut it.

“He doesn’t want to talk to you,” Gerry snapped. “Take a hint already.”

“You’re awfully quick to see me off,” Annabelle remarked. “You don’t even know what I’m here for.”

“Doesn’t really matter. Whatever it is, he’s not interested. He’s been clear on that.”

“I think he would be, if he knew,” she replied. “For goodness’ sake, Gerry, I’m trying to _help_ him. I always have been.”

“That’s nice,” Gerry replied. “Bye.”

Annabelle sighed with long-suffering patience, and Gerry took great pleasure in shutting the door in her face.

Oliver was still waiting when he got back to the living room. “Is he gone?” Gerry asked.

“Oh, uh, yeah. Are you going to call him back in?”

“Probably not.” Gerry rolled his shoulders with a sigh, and couldn’t help but notice Oliver’s eyes tracking the movement. “If her usual patterns hold, she’ll stick around a bit to see if he comes back, and he’ll hang out at the cafe down the road until it’s safe. They have pumpkin spice all year round, and he always needs it after she shows up.” He sat down and grabbed his phone to send a quick text — _Bring me back a chocolate croissant. :B_

“Ah. I take it Martin’s not the only one with bad exes, then?”

Gerry snorted. “Don’t know about that. They never dated, just worked the same shit job. Don’t know why she’s so interested in him, and I don’t care to.”

Oliver pulled a wry face. “Ah. Bad coworkers, then. I know what that’s like.”

“Yeah. Jane, right?” Curiosity overcame him. “I have to ask, was that before or after you and Martin…?”

“After,” said Oliver. “She was usually fine, it’s just that when no one was looking…”

“That sucks.”

“It wasn’t so bad. I kind of felt sorry for her, you know?” Oliver shrugged. “Always got the feeling she was lonely. I don’t think she could ever hold down friends.”

“I wonder why,” Gerry said acidly.

“I know. She just looked so miserable all the time.”

“Doesn’t give her the right to make everyone else miserable along with her.”

“No. I suppose not.” Oliver smiled slightly. “Jon seems nice, though. I do hope things work out between him and Martin.”

“Mm.” Gerry hoped it sounded noncommittal enough. Of course Jon was nice. Jon was lovely. It was Martin he was worried about. Probably wasn’t the best idea to snub someone in front of their former boyfriend, though.

Besides. Oliver wasn’t half bad, face-wise. It’d be a shame to wipe that smile off it.

* * *

To call Martin Blackwood’s love life a train wreck was both a kindness to Martin and an insult to trains everywhere, wrecked and otherwise.

Well, no. That was unfair to a few people, probably. At least two.

The truth was, a small part of Martin wished dating could have been nothing but misery. Maybe then he could have convinced himself to give the whole thing up as a bad job and be done with it. But no, there were just enough shining moments and periods of blinding joy to bring him crawling back to the concept of romance again and again.

Sometimes the problem was him, and that was the easiest. He could do self-improvement. Sometimes the problem was them, and that was trickier. Worst of all was the rare, if not mythological occasion in which he found himself in a relationship as close to picture-perfect as possible. That was when circumstances had to step in, through no fault of anyone, and put an end to things.

So maybe he shouldn’t have been so surprised, when Oliver stepped out of the shadows to interrupt his third date with Jonathan Sims.

And now they were here. Jon was healing and scarred from a brush with Jane, Jared was looming somewhere in the near future, and beyond that…

Well, it was only a matter of time before Jon got wise, wasn’t it? At least Martin knew he was the problem this time.

It didn’t take long for Jon’s bandages to start coming off, and Martin kept a respectful distance all the while. He allowed himself texting and the occasional phone call outside of work, but he couldn’t bring himself to take more than that. He was sure that if he got too close, the next face from his past would pounce while Jon was still healing.

But then Jon came strolling into the office one morning with noticeably fewer bandages than he’d had when Martin last saw him.

And Martin could have continued to keep away, he honestly could have, but then Jon had to come straight to his desk. “We should get lunch together,” he said, so bright and hopeful that Martin would have had to be heartless to say no.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

“It’s been too long,” Jon replied. “And I’m feeling better, if you worried about…”

He gestured vaguely at the few remaining bandages, and the rest of Martin’s defenses crumbled. He’d noticed. Martin hadn’t said anything before he started being careful, but of course Jon had noticed.

“We don’t have to,” Jon assured him. “I just thought—”

“No, you’re—I’d love to,” Martin blurted out. “And you’re right, I’ve… I missed you. I’m sorry, for…” His voice trailed off. There were so many things to be sorry for, he couldn’t pick just one.

Jon’s hand came to rest on top of his. “You don’t have to apologize,” he said. “It’s not as if you asked them to come vet me.”

He had to wonder how he got so lucky, and why his blessing had to be Jon’s misfortune.

Lunch was as lovely as ever, and Martin made sure to pick up the bill. Jon argued until he saw the desperate look in Martin’s eyes, at which point he relented and promptly threatened to get the next one.

Conversation was always a varied affair with Jon. That afternoon, for example, he had animal symbiosis on the brain. Martin had not known that there was a species of fungus that evolved not to release spores because it relied on symbiotic ants to farm it instead, but now, thanks to Jon, he did.

(“All of that, and you still hate spiders.” “Martin, there’s a _world_ of difference between spiders and ants—you know, that reminds me of something I read about morphology-based classification…”)

Eventually Jon stopped startling every time someone came anywhere near their table. A little later, Martin stopped doing it too. At some point, Jon slipped his hand under the table and found Martin’s. At ease for the first time since Jane, Martin ate his sandwich with one hand and thought about what it might be like to kiss Jon properly.

There was someone standing near the front steps when they got back. Martin tensed at the sight of them, only to relax with relief when he realized it wasn’t anyone he knew. Beside him, Jon noticed them and spooked again. But this time, he didn’t turn his head away after he had a proper look.

“Jon, hi!” the woman called over with a friendly wave. “I’ve got a jacket for you. Melanie says she borrowed it last time she was over?”

“Oh! Yes, thank you.” Jon broke away from Martin to take the jacket she held out. Martin couldn’t help but stare; it was black leather, well-worn and decorated with little chains and studs. It was almost funny, seeing it hanging over Jon’s cardigan-covered arm. With exes fresh in his mind, he couldn’ help thinking it looked like something Oliver would have worn.

Jon was chatting with the woman, visibly pleased to see her, so Martin hung back and waited. He wondered if he ought to go inside, leave Jon to his friend, but then Jon was turning and beckoning him over.

“This is Martin,” Jon was saying eagerly as he approached. “We’ve been dating for a few weeks now. Martin, this is Georgie, my, ah, friend.”

“I’m his ex-girlfriend,” she said with a smile as she shook his hand. “No no, don’t look so scared! I’m not one of _those_ exes.”

“Ha, right,” Martin said weakly. For a wild moment, he imagined having to fight her for Jon’s affections. He didn’t like his chances. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Same to you!” Georgie beamed. “Melanie’s mentioned you a few times.”

“G-good things I hope.” It wasn’t likely, considering that the one time they’d met had ended with Melanie shouting at him to call an ambulance.

“She was very mysterious about you, actually.”

Martin heard Jon’s phone chime in his pocket, but Georgie’s pleasant air was equal parts soothing and distracting. So he didn’t think much of it, until Jon tensed at his side and Georgie’s cordial mood turned to concern.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“I—” Martin couldn’t see Jon’s phone screen, but when his eyes flickered to him, wide with sudden, desperate fear, he realized what must have been on it. “I, um. Sorry, I have to take this call.”

“Jon, wait,” Martin blurted out. God, if it was Jared, it would be bad, and if it wasn’t, if it was one of the others, it might be _worse_ —

But Jon was already backing away, knuckles white as he gripped the phone. “I’ll be right back. Sorry, I really have to…” And then he was gone, hurrying out of earshot with his phone to his ear.

Martin’s heart was in his throat, so he wasn’t in quite the right frame of mind for Georgie’s weary, long-suffering sigh. “God, what’s he gotten himself into this time?”

“W-what?”

Georgie offered him a sympathetic smile. “I’m really sorry about him. I guess he hasn’t changed much.”

“ _What?_ ”

“He just… hm.” Georgie frowned in thought. “He does this sometimes. Gets himself into something, winds up stuck in his own head, you know?”

No, he didn’t know. Jon didn’t get himself into this, _Martin_ did. “Okay?” he said, not quite sure what she was talking about. “Thanks for the warning, I guess?”

“I don’t mean—I’m sorry, this is coming out all wrong.” Georgie sighed. “He means well. I know he does. But he’s not… the _best_ at communicating?” Jon was coming back, his phone call apparently over, so she shook her head. “Just, don’t let him shut you out. Or brush you off.”

“Right. Thanks.” Christ, maybe Jon had ex-related baggage after all.

Georgie offered a rueful smile. “I’m rooting for you two. I hope things work out.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Jon rejoined them, pocketing his phone carefully. He was a little paler than before, his lips pressed together in a thin line. “Sorry about that,” he said.

“Something wrong?” Georgie asked.

“Oh, uh, no. Just a business call.”

“Aren’t you about to go back into work?” she pointed out.

“Guess it couldn’t wait,” he said, his hand slipping into Martin’s. Martin gave it a comforting squeeze. “Well, ah, it was good to see you again, Georgie. Thanks for the jacket.”

“No problem. Good luck.” With one last smile and wave, Georgie turned and walked away.

Once she was out of earshot, Jon let out a slow, shaky breath. “So. That was Jared.”

“Christ,” Martin breathed. “Are you okay? We only dated for a little while, but I remember he was… a lot.”

“He sent an address,” Jon replied, without really answering the question. “I looked it up, it seems to be a gym in Chelsea.”

“Yeah, that tracks,” said Martin. “How long do you have?”

“Just until this evening.”

“ _What?_ ” Martin almost stopped breathing entirely. “Jon, you’re still injured!”

“I know! But what am I supposed to do, call back and ask for a rain check? We only spoke on the phone, but he didn’t strike me as the negotiating type.”

“No… no, he isn’t.” Martin sighed. God, he hated this. Why couldn’t these people just leave him _alone?_ What, did they think they’d get another chance with him if they chased Jon off?

_Of course they wouldn’t, who would want a second chance with someone like you_ —

He slammed down hard on that line of thought, killing it before it could go any further. It didn’t matter why. It was happening, and neither of them could change that without playing by the rules.

“Text me the address,” he said. “I’ll meet you there, alright?”

“You’re sure?” Jon clasped his hand. “He didn’t sound like the most pleasant person to be around. If you don’t want to see him again—”

“I’ll be fine,” Martin assured him. “Really. Jared’s… he was kind of a jerk, but it was never as bad as Jane. I can stand to be in the same room with him, especially if it means giving you moral support.”

Jon’s eyes softened. “Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do. The _very_ least.”

They dawdled outside for as long as they thought they could get away with (Martin thought they could go a bit longer, but in the end Jon insisted). Martin didn’t kiss him yet. He wanted to, more than anything, but it felt risky, like he might jinx it if he took one more step closer before the danger had passed.

Sometimes it felt dangerous just to hold his hand.

* * *

Evening came too soon, but honestly Martin never would have felt ready for it. They weren’t even halfway through this mess, and already he felt exhausted.

Which was silly. He didn’t have any right to feel exhausted, not when Jon was the one putting himself on the line.

He left work early, just to give himself time to putter around at home and try to ease his nerves. It didn’t work, but at least he wasn’t subjecting anyone else to his turmoil. And when the time came, the station was only a short walk away.

He left his flat, locked the door carefully behind him, and turned around to find a familiar car idling at the curb outside.

For a moment Martin stood frozen, his heart leaden and sinking down to his feet.

This wasn’t possible. He’d been—if not overly cautious, then at least not careless. He’d moved. He’d been careful never to let his new address anywhere near _him_.

But there he was, standing next to a car that Martin couldn’t have afforded if he worked overtime for the rest of his natural life. Smiling, easygoing, not a care in the world.

“Martin,” Peter said cheerily. “It’s been too long, hasn’t it?”

Sometimes, Martin indulged in daydreams. In the safety of his own mind, he lovingly constructed dozens of different scenarios in which he came face to face with this man again, and in every one of them he told Peter _fucking_ Lukas exactly what he thought of him. In these fantasies he could find the words to cut him down, to hurt him, to make him understand how low and tiny and wretched he was in Martin’s eyes.

And now, in real life, what came out was, “Why are you doing this?”

Peter’s eyebrows shot upward. “Why, I worry about you, of course,” he said. “You just up and vanished one day, and no one could tell me where you’d gone.”

“Then how did you find me _now?_ ” Martin demanded.

“But of course I wasn’t going to give up,” Peter went on as if Martin hadn’t spoken, just like he always did. “I couldn’t just let you be the one that got away, could I? I had to give it another try. If at first you don’t succeed, and all that.” He straightened up, gestured at the car, sleek and shiny on the outside and disgustingly plush on the inside. “I think it’s time we talked, don’t you?”

“I have _nothing_ to say to you,” Martin choked out.

Peter shook his head. “I beg to differ. You took off so suddenly, before. You never even gave us a chance to—”

“ _There is no US!_ ”

His voice echoed in the quiet, empty street. Martin stood shaking from head to toe. He was going to miss the next train. He was going to be _late_.

“There was never an ‘us’,” he went on, strangled with fury. “Get that through your head, Peter. You are not my ex. You were never my boyfriend. You were just my creepy boss. For once in your life, _take a hint_.”

Peter sighed again, more disappointed than genuinely upset, and Martin hated him for it all over again.

“I was never fair to you, was I?” said Peter. “I pushed too hard and too fast. I gave too much and scared you away, I understand now. But I’m trying to be fair now. I’m trying to be less… oh…” He snapped his fingers a few times, hunting for the word. “Overbearing? Audacious? At the very least I’m trying to give him a fighting chance.” Peter cocked an eyebrow at him. “If that’s not working for you, then I may as well give that up, just speed things along again—”

“Look,” Martin broke in. “Fine. We can talk. Just, later? I’ll miss Jon’s next…” His voice trailed off. Challenge? Duel? Fight? With Jared involved, the thought of Jon fighting made his stomach turn.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine without you,” Peter assured him. “From what I heard, he fared perfectly well with Ms. Prentiss.”

He opened the passenger side door and gestured to it. It was no longer a request. Just looking at it made Martin feel sick.

“Just to talk,” Peter said, with what he probably thought was a gentle smile. “You have my word. Don’t worry, I’ll keep my hands to myself—I learned _that_ lesson loud and clear.”

Heart sinking, Martin reached into his pocket for his phone.

“Ah, I wouldn’t,” Peter cautioned him. “He seems a bit high-strung, your new… admirer. We wouldn’t want to distract him on such an important evening, would we?”

The part of Martin that wanted to burst into tears felt distant. Maybe he would later, when Peter was gone and he could afford to.

_I’m sorry, Jon,_ he thought, as he walked toward a luxury car that might as well have been a gallows. If Jon didn’t accept it, Martin certainly wasn’t going to blame him.

* * *

Jon stared down at his phone, anxiously tapping his foot despite the way it twinged his still-healing wounds. Martin was supposed to be here ten minutes ago, and if he didn’t hurry, they’d be late to Jared’s challenge.

Jon sighed softly, resisting the urge to pick at the bandages that were peeking out from underneath his jacket sleeve. Before the whole _getting eaten by worms_ thing, he’d been so confident that this was what he wanted, that he didn’t mind getting a little banged up if it meant being with one of the most caring, wonderful people he’d ever met. But...but he’d woken up screaming the past few nights, scratching frantically at his own skin, to the point that Gerry had come running into his room, pale and spooked, his hair in disarray.

He knew that he was worrying Gerry and Melanie, for good reason. If the rest of the challenges were as dangerous as Jane’s had been…

He shook himself out of his thoughts and checked his phone again, the last bit of hope he’d been holding onto dying at the pointed lack of any new messages.

Maybe Martin was in trouble. Oh god, what if one of his exes had decided to take the initiative and hurt him? Or maybe...maybe he’d just decided that this wasn’t worth it, that _Jon_ wasn’t worth it.

_No, don’t think like that. He probably has a perfectly good reason for being late,_ he told himself, jamming his shaking hands into his pockets, burying his worry over Martin’s absence, the lingering ache of his injuries. _Let’s get this over with, and then call him to make sure he’s okay._

He drew himself up and pushed away from the wall he’d been standing against, the one across the street from the gym. He half-hoped that the door would be locked when he tried it, but it opened easily under his touch.

He was immediately hit with the foul scent of sweat, and the faint clinical reek of the antiseptic wipes that clients used to wipe down the equipment. Behind the front desk, the free weight area, full of dull iron bars, black weights and various benches, was completely devoid of life. _Liminal space,_ Jon’s mind supplied, and he physically shook the thought away.

He turned to look over at the room on his right, which looked to be a dance studio of some kind, full of faded mats and mirrors that stretched the length of one wall. There didn’t appear to be anything noteworthy inside, so he moved to turn away—

_Wait._

There was a humanoid shadow looming in one of the mirrors, so tall that its head was a mere few inches away from the ceiling. It didn’t move a muscle, didn’t even twitch, but something about it made Jon freeze in place, not even daring to blink.

Slowly but surely the door creaked open and air rushed out, ruffling his bangs, filling his lungs with stale, dusty air.

Oh, god. What the hell was he thinking? He couldn’t go in there. The last challenge had left him bleeding out in the middle of the dirt, and Melanie and Martin had had to call him an ambulance. There was no one here to help him if the same thing happened, he could _die_ and no one know—

_Calm down._ What a stupid thing to think; he’d have snapped if anyone else tried to say such a thing, but he had to _calm down._ He had his phone on him, if things got really dire he could just call the ambulance, there was a perfectly logical reason for why Martin hadn’t shown up at the agreed place and time. He was fine, everything was fine, and everything was _going_ to be fine.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose, clenching his fists to try and stop the shaking. Then he walked slowly, cautiously toward the open doorway, keeping one eye out just in case this was a trick and someone was about to jump him or something.

He stepped through the door—

And almost staggered at the wave of sound that rolled over him, screams and cheers and through it all the rhythmic pounding of music that was almost lost under the roar of the crowd. He reached out to steady himself, only for his knees to collapse as his hand swung through empty air. He fell backward and into a line of thick rope that stretched sickeningly under his weight, giving him a too-candid look at the faceless mass of the crowd, except for the _eyes._ Every single one of them had wide, bright eyes, giddily drinking in the spectacle.

Phantom hands pushed against his body, plucking at his clothes, and he yelped and threw himself away, landing on all fours in the center of the boxing ring.

That enormous figure that Jon had seen in the mirror loomed above him, bathed in shadow except for the gleam of two bloodshot, ice-blue eyes, and a wide, pearly smile. He was even more muscular than Jon had initially assumed, his arms and legs threaded with thick veins, pectorals straining against his plain white muscle shirt.

The man laughed, but it lacked any semblance of humor or levity. It was the low rumble of a predator that had its prey cornered, and knew that it could do whatever it wanted, and nothing would be able to stop it. The sound of it made Jon’s knees go weak all over again, and it was only the thought of running back into those strange, inhuman hands that kept him in place.

“You don’t look like much,” Jared Hopworth said, sounding as though he was talking through a handful of gravel. “Thought you’d be more impressive.”

Jon quickly scrambled to his feet, not wanting to be prone for a second longer in the presence of this terrifying man. He swallowed thickly and rasped, “Sorry to disappoint.”

Jared shrugged, and the movement was like the languid roll of a mountain. “S’not your fault. Most people are small compared to me.”

“I can imagine.” It came out higher and breathier than he meant it to.

“Heard you’d defeated Jane,” Jared continued idly, giving Jon a slow onceover that made his skin crawl. “Nasty piece of work, that one.”

_We can agree on that, at least,_ Jon thought. Out loud he only hummed an agreement that was immediately lost under the hubbub of the crowd.

“Anyway, I’m afraid that this is as far as you go. Going up against me...you’ve bitten off a bit more than you can chew, little man.”

For the first time, Jon felt something other than fear; indignation welled up within him, and he straightened as much as he could. He was of _average height,_ thank you very much! Just because Jared was so bloody tall didn’t give him the right to call him such a demeaning affectation. “I _beg_ your pardon?”

But Jared only laughed again, waving one of his giant, meaty hands, and Jon paled and cringed away. “You’re a bit stupid, aren’t you? Brave, but very stupid.”

_So I’ve been told,_ Jon’s mind responded dryly, but he was too busy cowering to say anything pithy or even stupid-brave out loud. Martin’s absence felt like an open wound in his chest.

“You’re funny, though.” Jared said, a touch thoughtful. “Haven’t laughed like that in a while.”

_Oh, good,_ he thought. _At least I’m funny._

“How about I let you pick the challenge?” Hope blossomed in Jon’s chest, but then— “Nothing too smart, though. I’ve no patience for what you stuffy academics call _fun.”_

_Nothing too smart._ The words pounded in Jon’s head, filling his brain, leaving no room for any other coherent thought. _Nothing too smart. What does he consider ‘not too smart’? That’s so_ arbitrary. _Chess is out obviously, do checkers count? What about card games?_

“Don’t forget you’re here to fight,” Jared went on. “I’m letting you pick the rules, but either way, it’s a _fight_.” Jared was still grinning at him, his teeth very white and straight, the rest of his features made indistinct by the shadows that still clung to his form. He looked as though he was silently laughing at a joke that no one else knew the punchline to, and Jon suddenly became aware of the fact that he was being toyed with.

_Fuck._

Jon stared up at Jared, despair settling like a rock in his stomach. “Why…” he licked his dry lips, swaying dizzily. “Why are you…?”

“Oh, it’s nothing personal,” Jared corrected easily with a dismissive shrug. “I was offered a handsome sum, see? Too good to refuse.”

And Jon...wasn’t very good at being angry with people. It was a problem that’d spawned when he was young, and his gran had snapped at him for his petty temper tantrums, told him that he had no _right_ to be angry at her when he was such a difficult child. Despite his apparent prickly defensiveness, his inability to hold onto his anger had only worsened with age, transforming into a tendency to direct the majority of his frustration destructively inward.

Right now though, with Jared sneering down at him, trying to tear him and Martin apart for no other reason than a bit of cheap change—something hot and angry sputtered to life in his chest.

“Two minutes,” Jon snapped, clenching his fists by his sides. “You have two minutes to—to hit me, kick me, whatever you like. If I can still stand by the end, then _I win.”_

Jared’s eyes lit up with stunned delight, his smile growing impossibly wider. _“Oh?”_

“No—no breaking my legs or anything though,” Jon hurried to add, trying not to think about the fact that he was inviting this giant man to more or less try to beat him half to death. “That...rather defeats the point, I think.”

“Alright,” Jared said, still staring at Jon with those intimidating ice-blue eyes, even as he began to wrap his knuckles in long bandages. Once he was finished, he dropped his arms heavily to his sides, and Jon couldn’t help but watch the motion, imagining those meaty hands creating rents in his body. His throat was so dry that it audibly clicked when he swallowed.

Slowly but surely the sound of cheering, of screaming, even the music, died down into an expectant hush. The world felt as though it was holding an anticipatory breath, like he was standing at the precarious edge of a cliff.

At length, Jared said, “I was right, you know? Very brave, but very, _very_ stupid.”

Jon released a long, shaky breath, covered his face with his arms, and braced himself for the first blow.

* * *

_Ow._

His vision fuzzed in and out, in and out, and he staggered against the wall beside him, blinking rapidly. Everything hurt, his whole body _ached,_ and his ribs kept doing this weird... _shifting_ thing whenever he moved.

_Broken?_ He wondered dazedly, but didn’t dare move his arm away from his side to check. It felt like the only thing holding him together, like if he let go then he’d just rattle apart.

He couldn’t even remember leaving the gym, though he was sure that he must have. Jared’s stunned, slack-jawed expression drifted into his mind, snapshots of passing by the still silent crowd...but then it all sort of bled together into a nebulous, incomprehensible haze.

His knee almost gave out under him, and he let out a wordless cry, just barely able to stabilize himself before he fell the rest of the way to the cold dirt. He’d managed to get up again once. There was no way he could manage such a feat a second time.

“Oh my god,” someone said, very far away. “Oh my god, sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

Jon frowned, trying to discern the source of the voice—only to jerk back at the light touch on his shoulder, his gasp of surprise quickly turning into a long groan of pain.

“I think he’s been mugged,” a different voice said, high and scared. Jon cringed away, wishing that the rest of the world would go away and stop _hurting him._ He was so, so tired. He just wanted to _rest._ “Should we call an ambulance?”

There was a soft rustling sound as the person deliberated. “Probably? Is there anyone we can call? Sir?”

But Jon’s many injuries finally caught up with him, putting him at gravity’s tender mercies. He shut his eyes as the ground rushed up to meet him, and distantly relished the opportunity to finally, _finally_ lie down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: past toxic relationships, past workplace sexual harassment, implied stalking behavior, physical violence and injury.
> 
> Next time on The Power of Self Respect: Jonathan Sims Takes a Breather


	4. Jonathan Sims Takes a Breather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Saturday! You know what that means.
> 
> Detailed warnings in the end notes.

Cool night air chased away any semblance of warmth as Jon stepped out onto the street, and he shivered hard, clutching the bag of prescription painkillers close to his chest. He dithered a moment to check the map on his phone, before pocketing it and heading in the direction of the nearest bus stop.

He was exhausted and aching from his fight with Jared, but his mind felt like it was running on hyperdrive, prepared for the first sign of danger. But...even if he did manage to scope out a threat in the darkness, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. He was so bruised and battered that every movement was stiff and achingly slow; the most he could probably manage was to get on his knees and beg for mercy.

It turned out that two of his ribs had been cracked, and his arms, legs, and torso were more bruise than skin. The only reason his face was mostly unharmed was because he’d curled into a little ball with his arms over his head. Some of the deeper wounds on his arm had reopened as well, staining his sleeve with fresh blood. The nurse had been so alarmed by his condition that she’d almost called the police before he was able to stop her.

Unfortunately, they’d been able to do little more than wrap the worst of his injuries, give him some prescription painkillers, and tell him to take it easy.

Maybe he shouldn’t have refused her offer to call him a taxi. Hell, he probably should’ve called Gerry, who would’ve immediately left work at the bar to come pick him up, albeit with a healthy dose of lecturing and well-meaning concern. It was just...fresh air usually helped to clear his head, and he desperately wanted a moment to think.

It’d been almost an hour since Jared’s fight, and Martin still hadn’t texted or called. Worry gnawed at his mind like a dog with a bone, because what if the mysterious perpetrator of this whole shitshow had gotten impatient and decided to be done with it by kidnapping Martin? Or what if it was something mundane, like Martin had gotten hit by a car on his way over and was now on his deathbed?

Or…

Or maybe he was sitting warm and comfortable in his flat, laughing at Jon for going so far for someone who didn’t even like him.

_ He wouldn’t,  _ Jon immediately contradicted.  _ Melanie’s getting in your head. _

The thing was, he didn’t really think that Martin would do something like that. Martin was kind, and he loved stupid videos of cats falling off of shelves, and his laugh was so genuine and unselfconscious that it flustered Jon more often than not. Jon had had ample practice discerning when people were being duplicitous when he was growing up, and he’d never seen any sign of it in Martin.

It...wasn’t just the thought of Martin’s potential involvement in the scheme that was bothering him. It was the fact that he’d ended up in the hospital twice in so many weeks. It was that he kept jumping at shadows, that he couldn’t pass by alleyways without going tense as a bowstring, that he hadn’t been able to sleep through the night since Jane Prentiss had trapped him in her nightmare of a domain.

It was that he wasn’t sure all of this was all worth it anymore.

He’d meant it when he told Gerry that he didn’t want to lose Martin, but Gerry was also right in that tapping out wasn’t the same as giving up on something that made him happy. Continuing his relationship with Martin was actively putting his  _ life  _ in danger. All it would take was one challenge gone wrong, and…well.

He liked Martin a lot, but he wasn’t sure if he liked Martin  _ enough. _

And then someone stepped out of an alley and directly into Jon’s path, and he froze, heart rabbiting in his chest.

It was a man in a clean black jacket and a blue shirt that was buttoned just shy of decency, giving a candid view of the upper curve of his chest. He was tall and muscular, but there was something very genuine about his face that made him handsome rather than over-the-top, the way Jared had been.

“Hi!” the man greeted, removing one of his hands from his pocket so he could wave. His smile was wide and charming, and his dark eyes were very warm. “You must be Jon.”

“Uh—” Jon’s mind felt like it was filled with static and white noise, and he curled his hands protectively against his chest. “Um—”

The smile faded a bit as the man’s gaze locked on the bandages peeking out from under his sleeves, the defensive way he was holding himself.  _ “Christ,  _ Jane and Jared...really did a number on you.”

So he  _ was  _ one of the exes. Jon darted a quick look at the man’s biceps and felt his last bit of hope die an unceremonious death.

There was no way he could pull off the same trick he had with Jared, even if the idea of winning in a physical challenge wasn’t laughable. He might be able to win in a game of wits, but there was no guarantee that he’d be able to focus for any extended period of time, not as exhausted and distracted as he was.

This was...probably it.

He felt a sob rise in his throat at the unfairness of it all—but there was also a smidgeon of guilty relief as well. At least he wouldn’t have to choose between hurting Martin’s feelings and his own health and wellbeing.

The man coughed lightly into his hand and, with one last unreadable look at Jon’s visible bandages, suggested, “How about a game of rock, paper, scissors?”

Jon stared, certain that he’d heard that wrong. And then he scowled furiously, because  _ surely  _ he was being made fun of. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.” He shook his head, folded his right hand into a fist, and laid it on top of his left. The signature starting position of rock, paper scissors. “Best two out of three?”

Jon looked down at the man’s hands, which were extended in front of him, then at his big, earnest eyes. He was so tired of the fear, the constant expectation that someone was going to hurt him again, the pain that seemed to have no end. Most of all, he was tired of the sensation that someone he didn’t even know the name of was playing  _ mind games  _ with him.

_ Fine,  _ he thought numbly, and lifted his hands.

“Okay,” the man said. Jon obediently tapped his palm with his fist as he said, “Rock, paper, scissors!”

Jon threw a paper, the other man threw scissors. One loss. His stomach swooped with terror.

“Again,” the man urged. “Rock, paper, scissors!”

Jon threw rock, the man threw rock. A tie. The next round was a tie as well, but the one after that Jon managed to eke a win.

_ “The final showdown!”  _ the man said in a poor imitation of an announcer’s voice. “The current score is one to one. Who will win this final game of rock, paper, scissors?”

A quiet snort escaped unbidden from Jon’s lips. To his surprise, the man grinned proudly, like he’d just accomplished something.

They counted off once more. Jon threw paper, and the man threw scissors, and just like that it was over.

_ It’s over. _

Jon stared down blankly at his hands, extended in front of him, mimicking the shape of a piece of a paper. He’d lost the challenge. He’d...have to give up his relationship with Martin for good.

His eyes glazed over, and the next time he blinked hot tears spilled over his cheeks, dripping onto his shirt. Suddenly it was very hard to breathe, and he covered his face with his shaking hands, mortified but unable to stop the quiet sobs that ripped from him, jostling his many injuries, and that only made him cry that much harder.

_ “Oh god,”  _ the man whispered, sounding horrified. “Oh shit, um—hey, it’s okay! It’s okay, I promise! Best three out of five?”

Jon was so shocked by the sudden offer that he lifted his face from his hands, blinking owlishly even as tears continued to fall. The man was hovering a few feet in front of him, hands outstretched like he wanted to reach out and touch, the corners of his eyes tight with sympathy.

Jon sniffed, scrubbing at the dampness on his face with his sleeve. “...what?” 

The man lifted his hands again, visibly forcing a smile onto his face. “Come on, let’s play again.  _ Obviously  _ the stakes are too high to play to just two out of three, yeah? Best three out of five.”

Extremely befuddled now and a bit dizzy from emotional whiplash, Jon hesitantly mirrored the other man.

“Ready?” he asked brightly. “One, two, three!”

Another tie as they both played rock. The other man wiggled his eyebrows mischievously and said, “We’re really having a  _ rocking  _ time right now, huh?”

Jon was so startled that he almost choked on his own spit. Was that—did he just make a  _ joke? _

He was a little more relaxed the next time they played. This time when Jon played paper, the other man shot a finger gun over the top of his palm like a western gunslinger, with accompanying  _ pew pew!  _ noises.

“That doesn’t count!” Jon protested.

“Sure it does!” the man responded with a wink. “Finger gun automatically equals a tie.”

They played another few rounds, with the other man’s antics becoming increasingly more ridiculous. When Jon lost his third game, the other man pointedly extended his hands, like playing again wasn’t even a question.

Jon didn’t actually win (best of twenty-three? twenty five? it was twenty-something, he was sure of it) until five minutes later, but by that point he was so busy dissolving into hiccuping bouts of incredulous laughter that he didn’t care. The man seemed delighted by his reactions, smiling wide and sunny, his gestures and movements becoming that much more grandiose.

“Good job!” he said, clapping Jon lightly on the shoulder. “You’re  _ great  _ at rock, paper, scissors.”

Jon shot him an incredulous look. “I lost...a bunch of rounds.”

An uncaring shrug. “Yeah, well, you got there in the end. And now that you’ve won, I can finally say it’s nice to meet you, and my name’s Tim Stoker.”

Jon blinked owlishly at Tim, still standing at his shoulder, grinning. He certainly  _ looked  _ real, for all that this felt like a very strange dream. “Why didn’t you…?”

“Do you know how  _ weird  _ it feels to go up to someone and say, ‘Hey, my name’s Tim, also I’m going to try and stop you from dating my ex!’” Tim shook his head in disgust. “I thought it would be better to get all the unpleasantness over with first.”

“That makes sense,” Jon said, even as he studied Tim curiously. Then he said, in a tone that was more statement than question, “You...didn’t choose to be here.”

A frown flitted across Tim’s face for a moment, but then he sighed, and his expression softened. “I...suppose you have more of a right than anyone to ask me about it. No, I didn’t. Someone just...applied pressure appropriately. I’m told that it’s very easy to do.”

He said the last sentence so bitterly that Jon winced instinctively. “I’m sorry that you were caught up in all of this.”

Tim shot him a small, tired smile. “I appreciate it, but if anything, I should be saying that to  _ you.”  _ He gestured at the bandages peeking out of Jon’s sleeve, the still-healing worm marks on his face.

“Suffering isn’t a contest,” Jon said, parroting what he’d heard from counselors and therapists time and time again. “Random people threatening you is never fun, no matter who or how many it is.”

Jon hadn’t thought that he’d said anything funny, but Tim laughed, small and surprised. Once he’d recovered, he favored Jon with a long, considering look. “Listen, Jon—can I call you Jon?” He paused just long enough for a nod. “You really look like you need a drink.”

Jon frowned, not following. “Thanks?”

“My partner and I were planning on going drinking after...all this,” Tim continued, gesturing vaguely. “To help me forget that I was forced to threaten someone, and all that. Would you like to come join us?”

“I—what?” Jon stared at Tim, bewildered. “You—you want me to come  _ drinking  _ with you?”

“You can say no if you want,” Tim clarified quickly. “I’d understand if you didn’t want to. It’s just—like I said, you look like you need to take your mind off of all of this.”

Jon suddenly remembered that he’d broken down in tears in front of this man not ten minutes ago, and flushed with embarrassment. “That’s...fair.”

“So, come drinking with us! I’ll pay, and Sasha—that’s my partner—will give you a ride home. How does that sound?”

Jon looked down the dark street in the direction of the bus stop, then considered Tim, all good humor and easy charm. Finally he said, “You don’t mind if I text my roommate, do you?”

Tim made a shooing motion. “By all means!”

Jon relaxed. “Then...yes. I think I would like that very much.”

…

Sasha turned out to be an intimidatingly tall woman with long, curly black hair and a wide, almost knowing grin. She was wearing a jean jacket that had a dizzying number of pins and patches on it, including a silver Star of David and a green, white, grey and black pin that Jon was pretty sure was the aromantic flag.

They were sitting in the booth of a small but comfortable bar, which was populated mostly by tired looking people getting a drink after work, and one giggling group of college students sitting in a fog of weed smoke, throwing peanuts at each other. The volume level was thankfully low, punctuated by an old fashioned jukebox singing classics in the background and the soft clink of glasses knocking against each other.

“Hi, nice to meet you!” Sasha said, extending a hand for him to shake. Though her grip was warm and gentle, her eyes were keen as she took in the bandages that covered his many scars.

“Nice to meet you too,” Jon responded, self-consciously tucking his hands beneath the table.

“What’s your poison, Jon?” Tim asked, unfolding one of the menus.

“Oh, I’ll just take a hard cider,” he said quickly. “I can’t stand the taste of beer.”

Tim brightened. “Me neither. I like to try all the weird specialty drinks, you can find some real gems.”

“Or, you can declare that they’re disgusting and give them to me,” Sasha said, dry as a bone.

Tim laid an aghast hand over his heart. “Lies and betrayal! I would never! Jail for Sasha for one thousand years!”

_ “Now  _ who’s telling lies?” Sasha shook her head, chuckling quietly. “Anyway, I wish that we’d met under better circumstances, Jon.”

Jon shrugged. “It’s not your fault. Tim had as much of a choice in this as I did.”

“Still,” Sasha hedged, frowning. “Being associated with this in any way isn’t a very nice feeling.”

“Tell me about it,” Tim added mulishly.

Desperate to change the subject to anything other than his current predicament, Jon mentally racked his mind for a topic. “So, Tim said that you two were partners?”

Sasha and Tim turned and studied each other for a moment, wearing identical expressions of consideration.

“Yes?” Sasha said finally.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” Tim continued, drumming his fingers against the table. “It’s like...hm. Imagine if you were in a relationship with someone, but without all the romantic stuff.”

“Super best friends?” Sasha hazarded.

“Queerplatonic!” Jon burst out, for a moment so ecstatic that he forgot to monitor his volume. “Me too! I mean—I’m in one too. My roommate and I, that is.”

“Oh!” Tim’s eyes lit up, and he extended a fist, which Jon bumped giddily. “Fuck yeah!”

“It’s nice not to have to explain that for once,” Sasha remarked with a smile. “Usually it just confuses people.”

“I know the feeling.” Jon shook his head commiseratingly. “And most of the time people don’t even listen to you when you try to explain, they just ask, ‘well isn’t that just friendship?’”

They all sighed heavily in sympathetic unison.

“Anyway,” Sasha sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Enough of that _.  _ What about you?”

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the arrival of the waiter, who patiently took their drink and snack orders before disappearing back into the kitchen area. Once they were finally alone again, he asked, “What  _ about  _ me?”

“Martin has been  _ very  _ cagey about you,” Tim said, smiling. “Said he didn’t want to jinx the relationship by talking about it too early. But he  _ seemed  _ happy the last time we spoke? Which I guess shouldn’t seem like a big deal, but he’s had  _ terrible  _ luck with relationships in the past.”

Jon winced and clasped his hand over the wrist of his bad arm.

Tim nodded at the expression on his face, and began rolling up one of his sleeves. “Yeah, exactly. Here, see? I met Jane Prentiss too.” He extended his bare forearm over the table.

Jon almost didn’t recognize the scars for what they were at first, but then the shape and size of them clicked, and he realized he was looking at long-healed versions of his own familiar pockmarks. He instinctively reached out, and had almost touched one before he remembered himself with a start. “Oh,” he managed, tucking his hands underneath him.

Tim nodded, and now Jon could see that the emotion in his eyes was empathy rather than pity. He pulled his sleeve down and leaned casually back in his seat, comfortable and impossibly casual, considering what he’d just shown. Even Sasha seemed unphased. “But...yeah. Martin really seems to like you.”

Guilt punched Jon in the stomach as he remembered how relieved he’d been when he’d first thought that he was going to lose to Tim. He swallowed, his throat so dry that it clicked audibly. “I—I like him very much as well.”

Tim nodded, like this was something that made sense.

Jon hesitated, before tentatively asking, “Do you...mind if I ask you a personal question?”

Tim spread his hands in front of him. “Ask away.”

“Why did you and Martin break up?” He carefully avoided Tim’s gaze as he spoke, tracing the grain of the fake wooden table in front of him with one finger. “It’s just—no offense, but you seem…”

“Incredibly handsome and charming and the most perfect boyfriend ever?” Tim suggested with a wink.

“Not evil? Sasha added mildly.

Jon flushed. “Well...yes.” Because Tim  _ was  _ incredibly handsome and charming, and he’d done his best to cheer up a crying stranger despite the awful circumstances they were both trapped in, and his whole face had visibly softened when he’d mentioned Martin.

Tim shrugged a dismissive shoulder and simply said, “Short answer? We were looking for different things in the relationship.”

“And the long answer?”

Conversation paused once again as the waiter returned with their respective drinks and nibbles.

Tim sighed and took a sip. “I...I  _ enjoy  _ the physical aspects of a relationship, and I like being with people, so for a long time I thought of dating as something that I  _ should  _ do. But whenever I was in a relationship, it always felt like something was...off? Like, the other person was way more invested than I was, but I thought that I just...hadn’t found the right person yet. When I was with Martin, though...I mean, he was really great, and he helped me work out that I was aromantic. I’m still grateful to him for that.” He drummed his fingers pensively against the table. “But being in a relationship wouldn’t have made either of us happy, not in the long run. Breaking up was a mutual decision.”

“Oh,” Jon said, a little stunned at how candid that confession was.

Tim clapped a hand on Sasha’s shoulder, grinning brightly at her. “And I mean, it all worked out in the end!”

Sasha smiled back fondly. “Where would I be without you?”

“Well, you wouldn’t be here in this bar, for one.” Tim remarked wryly.

“True,” Sasha conceded with a nod. “But anyway, Jon! Tell us about you and Martin!”

“But only if you want to,” Tim added quickly.

“Oh.” Jon’s mind went blank for a moment as he was suddenly reminded of the fact that Martin had missed their rendezvous, and Jon hadn’t tried to call him since before running into Tim. He quickly dug his phone out of his pocket and checked it.  _ Four missed calls.  _ Shit. “Actually, do you mind holding that thought?”

Sasha frowned. “Everything okay?”

“Not—not really?” Jon shuffled quickly out of the booth, shooting them an apologetic look. “I just need to make a call, it won’t take more than a second.”

Sasha and Tim exchanged a baffled look.

“Okay,” Tim said, waving him goodbye.

Jon hurried out of the front door and into the cool night air, taking one bracing breath before unlocking his phone and opening his messages app. Martin’s name was at the very top of his recent calls, and he tapped and pressed the phone to his ear, jiggling up and down both out of nerves and an attempt to keep warm.

Martin picked up on the second ring.  _ “Thank Christ you finally picked up! Jon, I’m so, so sorry, I wanted to call but—” _

“Hey, hey!” Jon raised one hand in a placating gesture, even though Martin couldn’t see him. “Slow down and tell me what happened.”

Martin released a long, shaky breath that was so close to a sob that Jon’s heart ached.  _ “I was—I was getting ready to leave and um—I was picked up by my...my creepy ex-boss for a chat.” _

Jon’s heart plummeted in his chest. He didn’t know who this ‘creepy ex-boss’ was, but he was pretty sure that he did not like  _ any  _ part of that sentence. “Did he do anything to you?”

_ “No!”  _ Martin yelped.  _ “No, god, he was—he was creepy, obviously, but he didn’t hurt me or anything.” _

Jon relaxed. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

_ “But Jon, what about the challenge?”  _ Martin insisted.  _ “Are you okay? What happened?” _

“Oh, that went fine,” Jon said, waving a dismissive hand. “We fought, I won.”

_ “You...fought?”  _ Martin asked uncertainly.  _ “You fought  _ Jared?  _ Jared Hopworth? _

Jon’s ribs gave a sharp twinge, and he winced and pressed his hand to his side. “Well, maybe we didn’t fight, exactly. It was more of a challenge of endurance.”

_ “Jon,”  _ Martin said, a warning in his voice.

There was no way to spare him of this without lying. “I told him that he could just...wail on me for a bit? And if I was still standing by the end, I won.”

Martin let out a pained, incoherent groan.

“Unfortunately for Jared, I have more spite than he has arm and leg strength, so.” Jon coughed into his hand sheepishly. “Anyway, I ran into Tim.”

Martin choked.  _ “You what?” _

“Tim! He was nice about it, he’s sort of in the same boat as Oliver was. I beat him in a game of rock, paper, scissors, and now I’m getting a drink with him and his partner.” Jon hesitated, before adding, “You should come. I’m sure they won’t mind if I invite you.”

_ “Christ, Jon.”  _ Even though Jon couldn’t see him at the moment, he was certain that Martin was slowly shaking his head in disbelief.  _ “Never a dull moment, huh?” _

“Never,” Jon responded promptly, squeezing the phone in his grip. “So...are you coming?”

_ “I mean…”  _ Martin trailed off, his voice going all small and sad.  _ “Are you sure you guys want me there?” _

“I—” Jon did the mental equivalent of a double take. “What?”

_ “I mean,”  _ Martin continued, the words rushing out of him all at once,  _ “You got so hurt because of me, and Tim must have been threatened, and…” _

“Woah, hey!” Jon shook his head, bewildered that Martin could even think such a thing, and guilty that he hadn’t considered it at all. Of  _ course  _ Martin felt awful about all of this, he was fiercely loyal to those he cared for. “You know we don’t blame you for  _ any  _ of this, right? None of this is your fault.”

A quiet sniff.  _ “Right. I know that, it’s just...” _

“I know,” Jon said quietly, feeling miserable for Martin, and angry with himself for almost leaving him to the tender mercy of an obviously very sick person, and wanting nothing more than to make all this awfulness go away. “Listen, please...let us try and take your mind off of things? Please?”

There was a long, drawn out silence, where the wind rustled the leaves on the trees, and the moon beamed brightly down.

_ “...yeah,”  _ Martin whispered.  _ “I’d really, really like to see you.” _

“Good,” Jon said, relieved, and quickly rattled off the address.

Fifteen minutes later, after Jon had informed Tim of the situation (who had responded by saying, “You  _ better  _ have invited him!”), a familiar head of dark hair appeared in the doorway. Jon, who’d been waiting impatiently for his arrival, immediately stood up and waved him over.

“Thanks for coming,” Jon said, scooting over so Martin could slide into the booth.

Before Martin could sit, Tim shuffled awkwardly to his feet and pulled Martin into a hug. Martin froze for a moment, his eyes wide and big and blank, before clutching back just as tightly, pressing his face into Tim’s shoulder.

Tim said something in Martin’s ear that was too low for Jon to make out, and a shudder rolled through him. Then he stepped away, eyes slightly redder than before, and finally turned to look at Jon. “Oh Jon, your  _ face.” _

“You should’ve seen the other guy,” Jon said primly.

Martin laughed wetly and slid into the booth next to him, and Jon dared to press a bit closer than usual. There was a brief moment when Jon thought that he had overstepped, but then Martin shot him a quick, grateful look and fumbled to take his hand under the table.

“It’s good to see you Martin,” Sasha said. “How’re you holding up?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose,” Martin admitted, rubbing his thumb over Jon’s knuckles in a way that made his eyes flutter shut. He’d...forgotten how exhausted he was. “Obviously I don’t have it as bad as these two—”

_ “No,”  _ Tim interrupted quickly. “Please don’t try to downplay it for our sakes.”

As though expecting backup, Martin glanced over at Jon, who only shrugged and gently squeezed his hand. He turned back to the table. “Then...yeah, I feel pretty bloody awful.” He side-eyed Tim and added in an undertone, “Peter invited me to have a chat earlier.”

The reaction was immediate. Tim recoiled with a small, disgusted grimace, while Sasha lifted her head like a hunter scenting prey.

“He didn’t do anything, did he?” Sasha asked, pulling out her phone.

Martin shook his head, waving her off. “No, it was the usual thing, I’m  _ fine.  _ It was...unpleasant, and I still don’t know how he found me, but he let me go.”

_ Peter.  _ Jon mentally filed the name under ‘people he would happily murder if given the chance’. Up to now the only other entry had been Mary Keay, who didn’t count for much on account of being already dead.

“Well that’s  _ something,  _ at least,” Tim said, though he still sounded dubious. “Let’s get you a drink though, yeah?”

Martin usually wasn’t one for alcohol, but he just gave Tim an emphatic nod. “Please.”

And right then and there, Jon felt his resolve solidify, because—because neither of them deserved this. Because Martin didn’t deserve to live under this terrifying Sword of Damocles for the rest of his life, and Jon didn’t want to give this up just yet, not when there was so much that they hadn’t  _ done.  _ Not when there was the potential for a million nights just like this, pressed warm and cozy against each other, but well and truly  _ safe. _

Martin rubbed Jon’s knuckles under the table again, and the motion was so achingly casual that it almost stole his breath away.

Unless Martin wanted otherwise, he would see this through.

* * *

It wasn’t that Jon went out of his way to avoid Georgie, or anything.

Their relationship was….complicated, to put it mildly. Their separation had been horribly awkward, and there was every likelihood that if they hadn’t had a mutual friend in Melanie King, they never would’ve interacted again, unless circumstance otherwise forced them together.

But they’d been happy together, and they had loved each other, and he didn’t want to lose someone like that for good. Sometimes their conversations were awkward, with Georgie just shy of accusatory and Jon tense and snappish, but sometimes they just picked up where they had left off, joking and bantering like nothing had happened. 

Jon hadn’t forgotten, and Georgie hadn’t forgiven, but they were trying, and that had to be better than nothing.

So...no, Jon didn’t usually avoid Georgie, but the unfortunate thing about their conversations was that they were, in a word,  _ trying.  _ And Jon, who’d woken up several times in the night because he’d rolled over or twitched or  _ something  _ and disturbed his ribs, wasn’t really in the mood to do anything more exciting than brewing a cup of tea and  _ maybe  _ braving a quick nap at his desk.

Which is why when he saw Georgie standing on their doorstep, talking to Gerry, he froze and genuinely considered turning around and hiding out in the nearby cafe for a few minutes. She was  _ definitely  _ going to ask about what happened to his face, and then he’d either have to lie to her—and he  _ hated  _ lying to her—or he’d have to explain what was going on with Martin. Which...also sounded like a terrible idea.

Then Gerry, propped up against the doorway, caught sight of him, and Georgie immediately noticed his distraction and glanced over her shoulder, and then it was too late. Jon walked slowly toward them, trying to suppress the hangdog expression that was currently threatening to break.

“Hi, Jon,” Georgie said, her smile fading as her eyes flickered over the bruises and cuts that decorated his face. “I’m here to pick up Melanie’s jacket. What happened to your face? You look awful.”

Gerry and Jon met eyes for a moment, silently debating what they should say to her. Then Jon took a deep breath and said, “Just...got into a bit of a fight.”

“A fight?” Georgie asked, a divot of confusion appearing between her eyebrows. “You, Jonathan Sims, got into a  _ fight?  _ What, did you say the wrong thing to the wrong person?”

“Nnnno…” Jon began, shooting Gerry a pleading look, who just shrugged helplessly. “Someone….challenged my honor?” That wasn’t technically a lie, right?

For some reason that made Georgie stare that much harder, her face twisted in an expression of incredulity. Behind her, Gerry sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, which was when Jon figured out that that probably wasn’t the most convincing thing he could’ve said.

“Your...honor,” Georgie said slowly, in a tone that strongly implied that she suspected he was lying. “Right.”

“Yes,” Jon asserted, shifting from one foot to the other nervously.

Georgie turned and looked at Gerry, as though he would be any more enlightening than Jon had been. Gerry released the bridge of his nose and shrugged again; it was less of an ‘I don’t know’ motion, and more of a ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you, this trainwreck is too far gone for me to salvage’.

“Jon,” Georgie sighed, and the profound disappointment in her eyes made Jon want to shrivel up into a little ball. He hated it when she looked at him like that. “Have you gotten yourself in trouble?  _ Again?” _

_ Again.  _ Like it was something he actively sought out, like he or Martin had asked for  _ any  _ of this. Jon wanted to throw something, but oh yeah, he  _ couldn’t  _ because of his broken ribs.

“Georgie,” Gerry said quietly, his brow beginning to darken like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

“Fine,” Jon snapped, tension building in his shoulders. “Yes, I’m  _ ‘in trouble’ _ . No, I don’t want to talk about it with you. Frankly, I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

_ “Jon,”  _ Gerry hissed, aghast.

Georgie couldn’t have looked more surprised if he’d just slapped her. Then her shock quickly twisted into anger, and that was—good. Fine. It was easier when she was angry. “It is  _ just like  _ you to push everyone away when they’re just  _ worried  _ about you! I don’t know why I expected anything else.”

Jon fell silent, giving the pavement a hard, scrutinizing look. He felt hot and impossibly, incredibly small, shame burning in his chest like a brand.

Georgie shifted from one foot to the other, and Jon could sense her helpless gaze on him, silently hoping that he would explain. Then she let out a quiet sound of frustration, threw her hands into the air, and marched back down the path to where her car was parked.

There was a long, heavy silence.

“Well,” Gerry said, and the disappointment in his voice was somehow worse than it had been in Georgie’s. “I hope you’re happy.”

Jon bit his lip, still staring very hard at his shoes, unable to bring himself to speak.

Gerry’s slippered feet appeared in Jon’s vision, and then there was a gentle finger under his chin, tilting his head up. His partner studied him for a moment, before letting out a sigh and wrapping his arm around Jon’s shoulders. “You’re such a self-destructive asshole sometimes, you know that?”

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispered, hiding his face in Gerry’s shoulder.

“I’m really not the person you should be saying that to,” Gerry said dryly, guiding Jon into the house. “Although to be fair, she  _ did  _ start it. Kind of.”

That finally elicited a small, wet laugh, and Gerry grinned down at him.

“Anyway,” Gerry said. “Movie night? I’ll even let you pick.”

Jon sent him a cautious smile. “Can we watch Howl’s Moving Castle again?”

Gerry let out a dramatic, put upon sigh. “Oh, if we  _ must.” _

* * *

Another busy day at the office saw Martin in the breakroom, staring listlessly at the kettle while he waited for it to boil. Logically he knew his situation wouldn’t change just because he had tea in his stomach, but it helped. The comfort of routine was enough to settle his nerves, and these days he needed all the help he could get.

If he were a stronger person, Peter’s words would have rolled off him, harmless as water. He  _ knew  _ whose fault it was that Jon was getting hurt, and it wasn’t his. He didn’t want this, and he hadn’t asked for it. But still, Peters taunts and cajoling were burrowing into his skin like splinters, stuck fast and stinging every time his thoughts brushed against them. The worst of Martin’s thoughts got like that from time to time, and Peter had a knack for matching those nasty little voices in his head.

It was one of the things he liked about Jon’s company. He liked Jon’s voice: the timbre of it, the rise and fall of volume and pitch whenever he got excited about what he was talking about. Sometimes, if Martin listened long enough—which wasn’t hard, with how Jon could go on about the things that caught his interest—he imagined drowning out every bit of unpleasantness in his head with voices that sounded less like Peter’s and more like Jon’s.

But lately, Jon had been quiet.

Who could blame him, really? A lesser person would have considered this whole mess beyond the pale. Just because Jon hadn’t run screaming yet didn’t mean he was having an easy time of it.

And what was he getting out of it? The privilege of dating Martin Blackwood. 

The kettle whistled, and Martin froze as the noise heralded a quiet revelation.

He wasn’t even getting that out of the bargain, was he? Not really. Not since all this started.

What was he  _ doing? _

The memory of Peter’s stupid face and smarmy voice rose up again, and Martin took a moment to shove it back down before dealing with the kettle and making a cup. Two cups, one for Jon. There should still be honey left in the breakroom cupboard. Jon liked honey better than sugar.

Then, armed with a pair of mugs and a fresh bit of renewed determination, Martin went straight to Jon’s desk.

The rest of the office was mostly empty. Good—Martin would have this conversation in front of a crowd if he needed to, but these things were always more comfortable with a bit of privacy. “Hi, Jon,” he said, accidentally startling him from beneath all the work he’d buried himself in.

“Hm? Oh! Martin, hi.” To say that Jon looked frazzled would be putting it kindly. There was ink on his sleeve and dust on his jacket, probably from rooting through basement files. Some hair had escaped his ponytail and now floated wisplike alongside his head. “Did you need something?”

“Brought you tea—you look like you need it.” Martin found an open spot on Jon’s desk to put down the mug. “Though, really it’s just an excuse to talk to you.”

“Oh.” Jon blinked in surprise, then smiled at the sight of the mug. Some of the worry on his face smoothed. “You could’ve texted, you know. Instead of running all the way here with tea.”

Martin took a deep breath, steeling himself. Why was he nervous? Jon had faced down Jane and Jared, for God’s sake. He had every reason to believe the answer to his question would be a resounding yes. “Yeah, well. Call me old fashioned, but I prefer to ask you on a date in person.”

Jon’s eyes widened, first with surprise and then with a delightful eagerness. Slowly, his spine unbowed. 

“I was just thinking,” Martin went on. “We haven’t been on a proper date since… since Oliver showed up, let’s be honest. I mean, we get lunch every now and then, and it’s great, it really is! I just think… I’d like to do something fun with you.”

“I would too,” Jon said, sitting up straight and leaning into Martin’s space. “Of course I—wait.” He hesitated, though it was clear from the look on his face that he was doing so reluctantly. “Are you sure it’s…”

“What, allowed?” Martin said sourly, and regretted the harshness when Jon winced. “Sorry, that wasn’t directed at you.”

“No, I know that. It’s just… Peter.”

“It’s usually just Peter,” Martin said dryly.

Jon shook his head. “No, I just mean… he’s the one behind this, right? So, if he spoke to you before…”

“He implied things, but he didn’t really spell out what the rules are,” Martin admitted. “Just did a lot of gloating, a lot of weird flattery, a lot of… negging.”

“Well, fuck him,” said Jon, and Martin snorted in amusement. “I’m serious, Martin.”

“You’re serious about fucking him?” 

Jon rolled his eyes. “I said serious, not literal.”

“I know. So here’s the thing.” Martin took his hand. “I don’t know about you, but I am  _ heartily  _ sick of existing in this—this relationship limbo or whatever it is. It’s bad enough they’ve decided you have to jump through all these hoops for the dubious privilege of being with me.”

“Excuse me, it is not  _ dubious _ —”

“ _ The point is, _ ” Martin went on before Jon could throw him off track. “It’s ridiculous. It’s not even their right to give you that privilege, it’s  _ mine _ , and I already have!” Jon blushed beautifully at that, and Martin squeezed his hand warmly. “What I’m trying to say is, I don’t see why I—why  _ we _ have to put things on hold for their sake. I don’t know when whoever’s next will show up, but in the meantime I’d like to go on a date with you. If you want to.”

“If I—Martin, I’d  _ love _ to.” Jon had brightened considerably, looking less frazzled and more delightfully flustered. “My evenings are free all week, barring any more gauntlets thrown.”

“Good,” said Martin, mind racing with excitement. “How’re your vacation days?”

“Mostly untouched,” Jon admitted.

“Fantastic. We’re leaving early, then.”

“Wh—now?”

“Pros and cons,” said Martin. “Cons, you get a little less work done today. Pros, we don’t give you-know-who any time to run interference.”

That got Jon up and out of his chair. “Oh. R-right! I’ll get my coat, and—oh, I should text Gerry, let him know where I’ll be. Let’s go.”

Minutes later they were walking down the street, Jon tucked up against Martin’s side in the cold. “So, where are we headed?”

“I was thinking we could see the aquarium?” Martin answered, trying not to sound embarrassed about it. He’d been looking forward to this one, ever since he started thinking about the difference between going on dates with Jon to properly  _ dating  _ him. He was fairly sure Jon wouldn’t laugh at him, even if it was a bit childish.

“The aquarium?” Jon looked interested, not disdainful, and that alone was a huge relief.

“I’ve always sort of liked the idea of it,” Martin said in a rush. “It seems like a fun place to go with someone you like, and—”

“Martin,” Jon cut him off, pressing close to get his attention back. “You don’t have to convince me. It’s a wonderful idea.”

“Oh. Right, I mean, of course it is. I did think of it.”

Jon laughed quietly, and Martin enjoyed the feeling of it. “That you did.”

Martin discovered, along the way, that Jon had managed to skip lunch again. He wasn’t surprised, exactly, nor was he overly upset when the solution was as simple as finding a chippy to stop at on the way. (“Fish and chips before we visit an aquarium? Are you sure that’s appropriate?” “Jon, come on.” “No really, imagine it. We go in smelling of tartar sauce and they turn us away at the door. We might be there for  _ nefarious  _ purposes. Stop laughing, it’s a serious concern.”) They ordered small and ate light; after all, what was a date without a nice dinner at the end?

They reached the aquarium unharassed, relieved, and holding tight to one another’s hand. Martin took in the wide, stately facade, and felt a wave of giddy delight sweep through him. After weeks of worry and tension, it was almost a shock to his system.

“Have you ever been here before?” Jon asked.

“No,” Martin said, a little wistfully. “There was a school trip when I was a kid, but I didn’t get to go.” He’d gotten into trouble somehow, and that was his punishment. He couldn’t remember exactly what he’d done, just that Mum had been upset, and because of it he’d stayed home while the rest of his classmates got to go to London and see the fish. “What about you?”

“Haven’t had the occasion,” Jon admitted. “Went to the zoo a couple of times, while I was a student. Good way to wind down.”

“Maybe that can be our next date,” Martin said, with a touch of defiance. Jon ducked his head, smiled, and let Martin tow him inside.

Logically, Martin knew that there was no such thing as a perfect date, and if there was, it would not be universal. But he soon discovered that a trip to an aquarium was as close as one could get, provided one was dating Jonathan Sims. Before long, it was Jon who was doing the towing, whisking from one exhibit to the next as each one caught his fancy. It was the easiest thing in the world to simply be swept along.

And one of the best things about dating Jon was never having to worry about carrying a conversation himself. He didn’t have to, not when Jon was positively chatty. He seemed to already know at least half the facts printed on the helpful signage next to each tank, and rather than feeling intimidated or foolish next to Jon’s array of eclectic knowledge, Martin was thoroughly delighted. Some species of sharks had to be in constant motion to survive, and that tidbit reminded Jon of some book he read or documentary he watched, and…

Well. It was a far cry from how he’d looked at the office, and it was downright infectious.

Their timing was impeccable, too; they made it just in time to catch the penguin feeding. “See?” Martin pointed out. “We’re not the only ones around here who eat fish.”

“True, true.” Jon watched thoughtfully as the birds dove for each morsel, simulating the way they’d hunt in the wild. “Can’t help but notice the lack of tartar sauce, though.”

“Well, they don’t know what they’re missing.”

There was a rainforest section. Martin hadn’t known about the rainforest section; he hadn’t googled the place beforehand, so he only had vague childhood memories of listening to his classmates talk about it. But here it was, full of whiskery catfish and brightly colored frogs and even a small crocodile.

Jon paused by the piranha tank, watching the red-bellied fish swim through their habitat. There wasn’t much to see; they’d missed the feeding by a few hours, so the fish didn’t have much to do besides swim.

“Anything interesting about them?” Martin asked, ready for another tangent.

Jon frowned thoughtfully, studying the fish carefully. One of them swam closer, red scales flashing, mouth open so that its tiny sharp teeth were visible. Martin was sure they were interesting creatures and vital to the ecosystem, but he’d never seen a less attractive fish.

Jon turned to him, straight-faced. “That one’s Jane.”

Martin stared at him in a moment of mute surprise, then burst into muffled giggles.

“I’m serious,” Jon informed him gravely, while the corners of his mouth twitched furiously. “The resemblance is uncanny.”

That started a new game between them, and soon enough they had to move on to keep from disturbing the other guests with their snickering. By the time they made it back out to the rest of the aquarium, they’d almost calmed down, only for Martin to ruin it again by pointing to the bulbous floating body of an ocean sunfish and naming it Jared.

* * *

Two men drifted through the halls of the aquarium, hand in hand as they went from one exhibit to the next. They huddled together, never straying farther from one another than they could help, blissful and relaxed and wrapped in the joy of the moment, unaware that their every move was watched.

The woman in the red dress seethed. It wasn’t fair, after all.  _ He  _ hadn’t earned it. They weren’t allowed to be doing this yet—or ever, if everything went like it was supposed to be.

When one of them turned to whisper to the other, so close that his lips almost brushed the other’s ear, she could stand it no longer. She took a step toward them, intent on putting a stop to it herself—

A hand descended on her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. She tried to shrug it off, but it refused to move. She turned to the woman with an angry scowl, only to find herself looking up into a bespectacled face with a distinctly unfriendly smile.

“Let’s not, shall we? You’ve already had your chance. You blew it.” Sasha James’ smile was all teeth. “Nobody likes a sore loser.”

* * *

When he spotted them leaving the building, hand in hand with flushed, smiling faces, he pushed off from the wall he’d been leaning on and stepped out to intercept them. Instead, he found his path blocked, his view of them cut off.

“Excuse me.”

“You’re excused,” his current obstacle replied through a mouthful of granola bar. “It’s not your turn yet.”

“I think you’ll find that it is.”

“Then you can wait.” Casually, Tim Stoker leaned beside him and just slightly over him, looming at the perfect angle for a suggestion of a threat. “Or, I can make a scene.”

“Really?” He had to award points for boldness, admittedly. “You’ll start something, in broad daylight. With  _ me _ .”

Tim answered with a cordial smile.

“You can’t possibly think that would end well for you.”

“It’ll look worse for you, I bet,” said Tim. “Ever been a meme before?”

He sighed deeply. “You can’t prevent this.”

"I know.” Tim put on an innocent expression. “I’m just safeguarding my friend’s evening. Thought you’d approve.”

“What on earth are you doing that you think we’d approve of?”

Tim finished off the granola bar as the pair in question made it safely around the corner. “ _ Chaperoning,  _ obviously. Now piss off.”

* * *

It was dark out by the time they left the restaurant. Jon was warm, full of good food and still pressed comfortably against Martin’s side. They were both a great deal more sober than they had been the last time they did this, but any extra caution they exercised proved unnecessary. No one stepped out of the shadows to stop them.

(The only minor scare had come partway through dinner, when Jon’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and it had only lasted as long as it took him to read the message.

“Just Gerry,” Jon had said, laughing a little. “Asking me to text him when I’m on my way home.”

A message like that did not warrant the grin on his face, so Martin had asked, “Does that… mean something?”

“It means he’s found his own company for the evening, and he’d rather I didn’t walk in on anything compromising.”)

They reached the nearest station safely before Jon, in a fit of boldness, lifted Martin’s hand to his lips. “I had a wonderful time.”

A pleasant flush spread across Martin’s face as he gently drew Jon in for a hug. “Me, too.”

Jon let his eyes slide shut, burying himself in the gentle warmth and scents and softness that were so distinctly  _ Martin _ . “God, I want to keep this,” he breathed out.

He was close enough to feel Martin’s breath hitch. “Me, too,” he whispered into Jon’s hair. “I’m sorry.”

Jon drew back, just enough to have a proper view of Martin’s face. “You don’t have to apologize for any of this. I know you didn’t ask for it.”

“I know, I just… you shouldn’t have gotten dragged into my bullshit.”

“I want to be with you, remember?” Jon said with a crooked grin. “If we have our way, it’ll end up being my bullshit, too.”

Martin laughed, brought his hands up to cradle the sides of Jon’s face, and drew him in to press a kiss to his hairline. “Text me, alright? When you get home safe.”

“You, too.”

Jon rode home in a fog of giddy bliss, buzzing with energy from head to toe. He was sure his fidgeting must have been irritating to everyone else on the tube, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. In his distraction he nearly forgot to text Gerry, before he jolted with epiphany about halfway through the journey.

The walk home from the station was similarly quiet, and eventually he could see their flat from a distance, the lights still on. As he drew closer, the front door opened, and someone stepped outside.

No, not just someone.

Jon halted on the sidewalk outside the block of flats, staring in astonishment as Oliver Banks chatted with Gerry on their doorstep. After a few moments their conversation ended, and Oliver stepped away with an awkward wave. Gerry leaned against the doorframe, wearing different clothes than he had been earlier that day.

“See you later?” Gerry called after him.

It was hard to see in the dark, especially given Oliver’s skin tone, but Jon could swear he was blushing. “I’ll call you.” He passed Jon on his way out, and—yes, he was definitely blushing.

“Evening, Oliver,” Jon said as he passed. 

“Hi Jon, hope you had fun,” Oliver mumbled, and then he was walking briskly down the street toward the nearest station.

Gerry held the door open for him as Jon made it in. “How’d it go?”

“Good,” Jon replied readily. “You and Oliver? How did that happen?”

Gerry shrugged. “Dunno what ‘that’ is yet, exactly. But, you know, he’s hot, he’s got a nice laugh, he thinks I’m funny, these things happen. Just a bit of fun, for now.”

“For now?” Jon shot him a shrewd glance.

“Oh, fuck off. How was your date?”

“I’m madly in love with him,” Jon replied, before freezing in place as his own words sank in. He’d meant to be flippant, but then he’d said it out loud, and… “Holy shit. Gerry, I’m in love with him.”

“Oh dear. Does he know?”

“Sort of figured it out just now,” Jon said faintly. He looked to Gerry nervously, afraid he might find disapproval, or something worse. What he found instead was worry, which was only a little better. “What? What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” Gerry said after a moment.

“You can tell me.”

“Nothing worth saying,” said Gerry. “Nothing useful. Nothing you’ll listen to.”

That stung. “Gerry, that’s not fair—”

“No, sorry, that came out wrong.” Gerry shook his head. “It’s the same as I’ve always been saying, alright? Be careful. I know you’re all for following your heart at the moment, but at least let your head have a say, alright?”

Part of Jon wanted to raise his metaphorical hackles at that, to snap that he was perfectly capable of making his own decisions. But it was the same part of him that snapped at Georgie for similar reasons, and he wasn’t in the mood to indulge it.

Especially when Gerry had to deal with the fallout of this ordeal, too.

“I’ll try,” he said.

“‘S all I ask.” Gerry gently checked his shoulder on his way to the kitchen. “I’m gonna make garlic bread. You want any?”

“Ah, no, I’m quite full.”

“No such thing as too full for garlic bread!” Gerry called back. Chuckling, Jon sent a quick good-night text to Martin, and sank down onto the couch.

There was one more thing he needed to do tonight. It wasn’t pleasant, but it had to be done.

Georgie picked up on the third ring. “ _ Hi Jon. _ ” Even over the phone she sounded guarded, polite but wary.

“Georgie, hi.” Jon winced at the waver in his own voice. “Is this a bad time?”

“ _ No, _ ” she replied. The shifting of fabric was just barely audible over the phone. Beneath it, Jon could swear he heard purring. “ _ I’m pretty much done for the day. Just unwinding now. _ ”

“Right, uh, good.” Jon drew his knees up to his chest, oddly comforted by the feeling of being smaller. “Listen, I… I wanted to apologize, for what I said the other day. For—for snapping at you like that. It was uncalled for, and childish, and you deserved better from me.”

The words stuck in his throat like they always did. It wasn’t the first time he’d said them, and it wasn’t any easier now than it ever had been.

Georgie’s sigh unnerved him, because he couldn’t tell whether it was an expression of impatience, disappointment, or relief. But a moment later she answered. “ _ It’s alright, Jon. I know how you get sometimes. And I shouldn’t have pushed when you were already upset. _ ”

“That’s not an excuse for—”

“ _ No, it wasn’t. But you also weren’t…  _ completely  _ wrong? _ ” She sighed again. “ _ Much as I don’t like to admit it, my place in your life just isn’t what it used to be. So, it sort of  _ wasn’t  _ my business, I suppose. _ ”

A lump formed in his throat. “Right,” he murmured. “Still, I could’ve done a lot better than snapping at you like that.”

“ _ We all have off days, _ ” said Georgie. “ _ Do you want to talk about it now? _ ”

“I…” Jon’s voice caught in his throat. “Well…”

The question was, would she even understand? And would it be worth telling her if she didn’t?

“ _ Yeah, _ ” Georgie sighed, resigned. “ _ I sort of figured. _ ”

“I want to want it,” Jon told her. “But I just…”

“ _ Yeah. Look, Jon, just… whatever this is, just make sure you’re not being taken advantage of, alright? _ ”

In spite of himself, Jon quietly chuckled. “Gerry said the same thing.”

“ _ Well, good. Listen to him. It… it was really scary, seeing you beat up like that, and I can’t imagine it was any better for him. _ ”

Jon ground his teeth against the queasy rush of guilt. “I’m sorry.”

“ _ I know you are. And, Jon? _ ”

“Yes?”

Over the phone, he heard her take a deep breath. “ _ It’s always good to hear from you. _ ”

“You too. Bye, Georgie.” 

He only had a few moments to enjoy the peace and quiet and the purring cat at his side, before he noticed the missed calls on his phone. As soon as he did, his phone rang again.

He answered it. “Hello?”

“ _ I hope you’ve been having a pleasant evening, _ ” the unfamiliar man said, by way of greeting. Except… he  _ was _ sort of familiar? For the life of him, Jon couldn’t place the voice. “ _ But we have business to take care of, as I’m sure you know. _ ”

Jon sighed deeply. “When and where?”

“ _ My schedule is open tomorrow afternoon at two-fifteen, _ ” was the reply. “ _ I’ll send you the address. Please be better dressed than you were today. _ ”

Instantly he was wound tight, as if all his nerves were wrapped in barbed wire. “ _ Excuse _ me?” he snapped before he could think better of it.

“ _ Don’t be late. Time is valuable, and I’d rather you didn’t waste mine. _ ” With that, the call ended.

Jon sighed, pressing his palms against his forehead until they stopped shaking. He shouldn’t be nervous. He even said to dress nice, which suggested that he wasn’t about to walk into a darkened gym to get beaten within an inch of his life again. That was objectively a good thing. It meant he had a chance of getting out of this one without a trip to the hospital.

But.

It had been nearly two years since the last time anyone talked to him like that—cold, clipped, dripping with condescension. It cut into him just as easily now as it always did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: references to blackmail, past injuries, and jane's toxic behavior; mentions of past arophobia and workplace harrassment
> 
> Next time on the Power of Self Respect: Jonathan Sims Gets It Together


	5. Jonathan Sims Gets It Together

The following day was Saturday. His appointment with Martin’s next ex was in the afternoon, and punctuality had been emphasized, so Jon decided not to go in to work. Then he told Gerry as much, because he knew himself well enough to know that he probably would anyway without someone sitting on him.

He knew at least logically that no one expected any overtime from him—that it wouldn’t even occur to anyone to ask it of him—but some habits were hard to break. Some lines of thinking were so old and well-traveled that it was all too easy to fall into them all over again.

But the guilt still crept in when he wasn’t being productive, when he wasn’t being _useful_ —

“I thought you were trying to relax,” Gerry said, with infinite patience.

“I _am,_ ” Jon retorted. “Emphasis on trying. See, I’m sitting down and everything. Haven’t paced for hours.”

It was the leg-bouncing, he just knew it. He just wasn’t good at faking composure, not without digging into things he’d rather not touch, memories and parts of himself best left in the past where they belonged.

“It could be worse,” he pointed out. “I could have gone in to work today.”

“Don’t even joke about it.” Gerry’s arm tightened around him, as if he thought Jon was about to get up from the couch then and there. “You’re about to cage-fight another sad idiot who can’t get over his ex. That’s your whole day right there.”

“He might not be,” Jon mused. “He was rather brusque over the phone. Didn’t seem to want to be involved.”

“Hm. Could be another easy one.”

Jon took a deep breath. “God, I hope so.”

“D’you know who it is?”

“Not really? I think his name is Michael, or Mike-something, but he wasn’t very forthcoming, and Martin’s been a bit tight-lipped on the subject.”

“Mm.” There was a lot packed into that noise. Jon opened his mouth, ready to leap to Martin’s defense again, before someone knocked at the door.

He almost sprang to his feet, a little desperate to release the piano-wire tension in his body, but Gerry pressed down on his shoulder and got up instead. “Michael doesn’t make house calls, does he?”

“No,” Jon replied, frowning. “It’s not nearly time yet, and he already sent an address.” He followed Gerry, because it wasn’t like Gerry could stop him, and settled for hanging back by his shoulder while Gerry checked the spyhole.

A moment later Gerry pulled back with a grimace. “Annabelle again.”

Jon’s heart sank. “Christ, what does she _want?_ ”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” Gerry looked back at him. “Want an escape route?”

“I… no, I just…” He wanted her to go away, but that was the one thing Gerry couldn’t guarantee for him.

Gerry simply nodded, took hold of his wrist, and towed him back to the couch. “Let’s lay low for now, if she tries to pick the lock again, I’ll run her off.”

Mercifully, she didn’t. When Gerry went to check the door again, long before Jon was due to leave, Annabelle was already gone.

* * *

An hour before he was meant to leave, Jon stood before his bed, staring down at half the contents of his wardrobe.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have anything nice to wear. He had plenty of formal wear—what he assumed Michael meant by “nice,” anyhow. But years of trial and error, missteps and accidental social blunders, had taught him that “something nice” wasn’t a one-size-fits-all category of clothing, so to speak. What was nice for a formal party was different from what was nice for a business meeting, which was different from nice for a date at an upscale restaurant, which was…

He could waste the whole day spinning his wheels about that. He had, in the past.

At the very least he’d managed to parse some of the categories. Currently he had (he was reasonably certain, at least) some fancy-date-appropriate clothes on one side of the bed, his one job interview outfit draped over the headboard, most of the rest of his formal and semiformal clothes scattered across the rest of the bed, and finally, shunted to the farthest corner…

He’d had half a mind to leave those gathering dust in the back of his wardrobe. Sometimes he wondered why he kept them at all, when just looking at them left a sour taste in his mouth. But they’d been expensive, and some of them were bespoke, and… well, he did want to dress to impress, didn’t he?

He shook his head. No. Absolutely not. He might need help, but he didn’t need _that_ help. Not anymore.

Jon wavered over his contacts list for a moment before calling.

“ _Hey Jon, what’s up?_ ”

“Georgie, hi,” Jon said, a little too brightly. He dialed back a little. “I was wondering—if you’ve got time, I could use some advice?”

“ _What kind of advice?_ ”

In spite of himself, Jon grimaced. “Fashion advice?”

“ _You’ve come to the right place! What sort of look are you going for? Date night?_ ”

“Not exactly, it’s more like I’m…” Jon hunted for the proper words. Too specific and he’d tell her something she didn’t need to know. Too vague and she might not be able to help. “I’m meeting someone close to—well, _connected_ to him, and I sort of need to… er, impress? Not his parents,” he added quickly.

“ _Define ‘impress,’_ ” Georgie said, her tone thoughtful. “ _Impress like, you want them to like you, or like you want them to fear you?_ ”

“Not sure how possible that is, but… the second one, I suppose?” Jon said hopefully.

“ _Send pictures, I want to see what you’re working with._ ”

With that, Georgie helped him put together a decent outfit out of what he had. He made the mistake of admitting that one of the jackets toward the back was fitted, after which she insisted that he wear it once she noted the color. Reluctantly he put it on, and grudgingly found that it still fit him well. He might not like it, but he did trust her judgment, and he needed all the help he could get. The nod of approval from Gerry as he left the flat didn’t hurt, either.

The address led Jon to a high-rise, a glittering polished structure of glass and steel that towered over the surrounding buildings. Jon wasn’t sure where the line was between opulent and ostentatious, but he was fairly sure that Banyan Court lay somewhere near it. On which side, he couldn’t be sure.

He found Martin waiting on the pavement outside, fiddling nervously with his sleeves. He, too, had abandoned his usual comfortable jumpers in favor of a nicer coat and button-down. It looked like he even had product in his hair, given how smooth and shiny it was. At Jon’s approach he startled, then relaxed, then went still.

“Martin?” Jon said, uncertain. “Everything alright?”

“Oh! Y-yeah, of course.” Martin’s eyes passed over him carefully, taking in the cut of his jacket, the practiced knot of his tie, and his neatly-combed hair. He reached out on the pretense of picking lint off Jon’s shoulder that they both knew wasn’t there; in doing so he tugged at Jon’s jacket, noting the way it hugged his shoulders almost perfectly.

“You’re sure?” Jon asked, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden.

“Yeah. You look… really nice, Jon.”

The words put him at ease. Nice was good, especially when it came from Martin. Martin thinking he looked nice was a strong foundation to start with.

“Thank you. You, ah, you do as well.” Jon linked arms with him. “Right, then. Let’s not keep him waiting.”

“Probably a good idea,” Martin said quietly.

As he approached the front entrance, even with Martin at his side, Jon’s first instinct was to turn around and walk the other way. It wasn’t hard to miss the doorman, the concierge, the polished lobby, and the dress and bearing of the people in it. This was not a place where he belonged, it was not a place where he was _safe_ —

It was an old habit. Long buried, now resurfacing. The fear washed over him, and he automatically straightened his spine. Every nerve wound itself tight, and he knew it had to show on his face, he knew he was overshooting composure and heading into disdain, because that was just what his face _did_ when he was uncomfortable—

He relaxed a bit once they reached the relative safety and solitude of the lift. Had Martin noticed? Jon shot a glance at him, but all he saw was his own nervousness reflected back. Martin was just as uncomfortable here as he was.

Jon’s heart sank. This relationship must not have ended well, either.

Michael’s instructions directed them to the roof. Jon was sure there had to be some kind of rule barring the public from the building’s rooftop, but they made it to the top floor without any trouble. No one stopped them, nor even questioned their presence.

Eventually they went up one last short flight of stairs that led to a rooftop access door. A small window let in the late afternoon light, too high up for Jon to reach and see outside.

Martin squeezed his hand. “Um, Jon?”

Jon paused, his hand on the door handle. “Yes?”

Martin hesitated, mouth open as if the words wouldn’t come. “I… just…” He dithered for a moment, then sighed. “Don’t freak out.”

“About what…?”

“Nothing. Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything, let’s just go, get this over with.”

“Alright,” Jon said, more nervous now than he had been previously. “Let’s.”

He opened the door.

The rooftop was wide open, as bright and polished as the rest of the building. It wasn’t quite as luxurious as Jon had feared—no rooftop swimming pool, thank goodness—but there were a few places to sit, for anyone who wanted to come up and enjoy the view. Jon wasn’t in the habit of hanging about on rooftops, but this one looked startlingly free of grime and bird droppings. It must have been cleaned regularly.

There was an advantage to the open emptiness of the place: Jon didn’t have to look very long to find his next challenger.

“Ready?” Jon asked.

Martin took a deep breath and let it out again. “Let’s get this over with.”

The table sat at the other side of the roof, and as Jon neared it he realized with a jolt that it was situated right at the edge, with only the parapet wall standing between it and a very long fall. It was a nice table, just on the right side of fancy, with a matching pair of chairs. The man sitting in one of them was sharply dressed in tailored clothes, and lounging in a perfect pose of tasteful boredom. He stood up at their approach, and Jon caught sight of his face.

Jon slammed to a halt as if he’d hit a wall. Martin stopped along with him as if he’d been expecting it.

“Martin,” Jon said out of the corner of his mouth.

“You said you wouldn’t freak out,” Martin said wearily.

“I didn’t, actually. And even if I had, when you said you dated someone named Michael, I didn’t think you meant _Mike Crew._ ”

“ _I don’t know how it happened either!_ ” Martin whispered back helplessly.

“Hello,” Mike Crew greeted him, perfectly polite. Of course he was polite; he had a bloody PR team. A self-made multimillionaire in the tech industry would know how to be _polite_.

And Martin had dated him.

 _No accounting for taste,_ he thought, a little bitterly. A bit discourteous, perhaps, but Crew’s reputation wasn’t exactly spotless. Melanie knew a lot more about it than he did, but he’d heard enough about her ranting about _lawsuits_ and _workplace practices_ and _selling user data to the highest bidder_ to get the gist of it.

Quickly he schooled his face into an appropriately neutral expression, and accepted the offered handshake. Mike smiled, and it made Jon itch.

It was the eyes, he realized. They weren’t technically eyes that Jon had seen before (too dark, too brown, too large in his face to be _those_ eyes) but they rang enough bells to make him properly uncomfortable. There was a sharpness to them as they studied Jon, raking over him as if peeling back the layers to expose whatever weakness they could find.

His body responded automatically, the same way it always did to eyes like that. His spine straightened, his shoulders squared, and he lifted his chin.. It even made him feel better, if only just a little. Jon was not a large man, but next to Mike Crew, he could almost pretend to feel like one.

“You’re on time,” Mike said with a passable smile.

“You sound surprised,” Jon retorted.

“I am. Pleasantly. Good to know Martin has good influences in his life.”

Beside him, Jon felt Martin tense. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jon asked.

“Inside joke, don’t worry,” said Mike. “Shall we get on with the challenge, then?”

“I don’t suppose you’ll let me pick?” Jon asked. Mike chuckled at that and sat back down, smoothing his suit jacket behind him.

“No, the game I have in mind is simple,” he said. “Come on, sit. Have some tea. I’m nothing if not a good host.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Jon took a step toward the table. Had there always been a tea tray on it? He hadn’t been paying attention, too occupied with the presence of a minor celebrity. But it was downright ornate, sparkling in the sunlight, so surely he would have noticed it—

He reached out to touch the chair that Michael indicated, and realized abruptly that the tea tray was not the only thing he had failed to notice.

He was sure, absolutely _certain_ , that a parapet wall had run along the edge of the roof. He’d seen it when he stepped out. He would have noticed if the rooftop _didn’t_ have a safety railing of some kind.

Only, now it didn’t. Three steps out, the rooftop simply ended and dropped away. His chair was right at the edge. He didn’t even have to lean out to see all the way down to the—

Down to…

Down to what?

The street below? There was no street below. Nor was there a city below.

Nor was there a _below_.

Looking out over the edge of the rooftop, all Jon could see was endless, open sky. Mike leaned forward, picked up the teapot, and didn’t appear to mind.

“What, ah.” Jon swallowed, throat bobbing a little. “What game did you have in mind?”

“Not really a game, I suppose,” Mike mused, pouring tea for them both. “Sugar?”

“I—d’you have honey?”

“Good choice.” The compliment made his skin crawl. “Please, sit.”

With the utmost care, Jon pulled the chair out. Two of the legs kissed the edge of the roof, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t pull it further in. Eventually he forced himself to sit, though his shaking legs made it difficult. He had never considered himself terribly acrophobic; there were worse things in the world than high places. But sitting on the very edge of an endless precipice was a bit more than he could take.

“We are going to have a conversation,” said Mike. “And when it is over, I’m going to throw you off the edge of this roof.”

“Mike,” Martin pleaded. Mike ignored him.

“A-alright.” Jon tried to swallow with a dry throat. “And the challenge is…?

Mike smiled at him over the rim of his cup. “Convince me not to.”

“Ah.” Was it starting to get windy, or was he imagining it? “H-how long do I have?”

“Weren’t you listening?” Mike said, arching his brow in faint disapproval. “You have until I decide the conversation is over.”

“R-right.” Jon took a deep breath. It didn’t help. “Right.”

He picked up the cup—he hadn’t drunk tea from an actual teacup since his grandmother was still alive—and put it back down when it rattled dangerously against the saucer. He wrung his hand, trying to force out the shaking, keenly aware of Mike Crew’s eyes on every movement. He didn’t look impressed.

Right. A conversation. He could do that. Martin loved conversing with him, and Mike Crew used to date Martin, so perhaps it would translate? Or, wait, Martin’s enjoyment of his conversational skills was a novelty, wasn’t it. Most people didn’t share it. He couldn’t rely on that. What could he rely on? What did he know about Mike Crew?

The contents of Melanie’s last rant popped into his head, rather unhelpfully.

“So,” he said, speaking before he’d formulated what to say. “You’re—you’re Mike Crew.”

“That is my name.”

“And you’re… hm.” Jon cleared his throat awkwardly. “W-what’s it like, being…?”

Mike sighed. It wasn’t a rude sound, or even overly unfriendly. Just impatient, right on the edge of frustration—

Probably wasn’t the best idea, thinking about edges at the moment.

“I said I wanted a conversation,” Mike said archly. “Not an amateur interview. God knows I get enough of those, these days.”

“Yes, and I’m pretty sure conversations are two-way affairs,” Jon retorted. “If _you_ have something you’d prefer to talk about—”

Wind whipped at him, strong enough to push him to the right. Even the chair beneath him tipped. Not enough to spill him, but enough to remind him of where he sat. It died down after a few seconds, leaving him shaking in his seat.

Across from him, Mike barely batted an eye.

“R-right.” Jon cleared his throat. “Sorry. Don’t know what came over me.”

Mike shrugged, infuriatingly patient. “Conversation is a skill like any other. Not everyone is keen to practice properly.” He sipped at his tea. “And it all comes down to the company you keep.”

“That’s, ah, true,” Jon replied, sitting up straighter. His brain, which up to this point had been leaping from one thought to the next like a landed fish, finally lit upon a possible topic. “And it’s also, you know, regional and cultural, I think. I was listening to a podcast the other day, just as background noise, and I found out that Portugal is considered one of the politest countries. New Zealand is a contender, too. Which surprised me, because, well, just by reputation I would have assumed Japan would have ranked above them. But apparently there’s a distinction between politeness and respect—so, in Japan there’s more of a structural hierarchy of who you’re allowed to speak to and what you’re allowed to say, and how you’re allowed to say it, which—which technically isn’t…”

His voice trailed off as he watched one of Mike’s eyebrows climb his forehead. Experience taught him that was usually an indication that he should stop talking. Quickly he clamped down on his own tongue, even as his mind buzzed to keep unloading his thoughts. The wind was beginning to pick up, and he didn’t quite know what Mike’s irregular tapping against his cup meant, but it probably wasn’t anything good.

“R-right, sorry, didn’t mean to, ah, dominate the conversation.” How much time did he have? Was there any way of knowing that?

It didn’t matter. However much time he had, he was wasting it, and from the look on Mike’s face, he was burning what little good will he had. How could he possibly salvage this?

 _Find common ground_ popped into his head, and he almost laughed aloud at the thought. What common ground could he possibly have with someone like Mike Crew?

The answer came when, off to the side, Martin tried to muffle a fretful noise and failed.

“So, ah, if you don’t mind me asking,” Jon went on. “How did you and Martin meet? There must be a story behind how you two, ah…”

Mike blinked, then shifted in his own chair until he looked just a little more settled. “Well, you’re not wrong,” he said, and Jon tried not to slump down in relief. “I mean, depending on your definition of a ‘story’.” Jon made what he hoped was an appropriately interested noise. He _was_ genuinely interested, but sometimes he didn’t show it right. “We met when I’d just found success and the future was still daunting to me. The world I’d stepped into was… on a different scale, i suppose. Easy to lose yourself if you aren’t careful. So it was refreshing, spending time with him. Made me feel normal again.”

“Yes, he does have that effect on people,” Jon replied, cautiously warming to the man before him. Maybe he wasn’t so bad, if that was how he felt about Martin.

“I outgrew that feeling, of course,” Mike went on. “And Martin… well, Martin just wasn’t willing to grow with me.”

 _So much for that._ Anger boiled up within him, and he barely bit back a reply that would have gotten him thrown off the building for sure. Martin was _right there,_ well within earshot, and Mike was talking about _outgrowing him_ , like Martin was somehow childish for… what, not measuring up to a nouveau-riche boyfriend? No wonder Melanie trashed this man at every opportunity.

It was infuriating. It was _repulsive_. And above all else, it was… familiar.

Uncomfortably so, in fact.

Before Jon knew it, he found himself slipping back into old spaces, as well-fitted and familiar as the jacket he was wearing. And just like the jacket, he didn’t like it at all. All over again, he was left unbalanced and lost, barely shielded by the thin veneer of the right clothes and a forced bearing. He hated every moment of it, and he wished he were anywhere else.

And yet…

It _was_ familiar, wasn’t it. Already he could feel his back straightening, his hands steadying, his expression settling into polite interest. Even after all this time, he could do it in his sleep, with barely a cross word or an arched brow as a disapproving incentive.

He didn’t like talking to people like Mike Crew, or to the people that Mike Crew wanted to be like. But at the end of the day it was a skill like any other, and for better or worse, he had it.

It was a lot like Jared. He didn’t have to win, or overpower. He just had to _endure_. To choke down his own revulsion, bite tongue over every petty word out of Mike’s mouth, and come out the other side on his own two feet.

All he had to do was play nice with a wealthy man again. He didn’t have to like the person he was while he did it.

“It must have been difficult,” Jon said smoothly, injecting just the right amount of sympathy into his voice. “Becoming part of an industry like that at such a young age.”

Mike frowned curiously, but didn’t otherwise react. “I suppose it was at first, but…” he shrugged in a way that was probably supposed to be modest. “There was no other option but to adapt.”

“An auspicious quality,” Jon observed with a quirk of his lip, then mentally winced when Mike’s eyebrows furrowed. _Not as receptive to flattery._ Right, Mike wanted someone to have a conversation with someone on the same level as him. Ego stroking would have to be used sparingly. “Although if that were the only prerequisite for success, then anyone could do it.”

Mike chuckled dryly. “True. Admittedly, luck plays a bigger role than you’d expect it to.”

“Of course.” Jon kept his voice carefully diplomatic even as he thought, _‘lucky’ as in being born into white male privilege._ “High risk, high reward and all that.”

Mike’s laugh was a bit more genuine this time. “Precisely! I can’t tell you how many ideas flopped before I finally got ahead of the curve. Absolutely maddening.”

“I can’t imagine.” Jon paused, nervously tapping his index finger against the side of his tea mug, hoping that the mild, coaxing response would encourage Mike to take control of the conversation. He was running out of steam on this particular subject, and had no clue as to what he should say next.

Luckily Mike took the bait, and proceeded to regale Jon with several of his most prolific failures. Jon desperately tried to follow the thread of the conversation, laughing and coaxing further elaboration where appropriate. It was sickeningly easy, even after all this time.

He _was_ having some difficulty trying not to go absolutely cross-eyed at the exorbitant amounts of time and money which must have been wasted on those botched endeavors. Mike may have only become a multimillionaire in the last ten years, but his family had clearly been at least upper-middle class beforehand.

“I personally prefer the more sedate pace of academia,” Jon said at last, affecting a dry tone. “But entrepreneurship does sound exhilarating.”

“Oh, it _is._ Most people don’t have what it takes.” Mike shook his head, a sardonic smile playing at the edges of his lips. “They’re either too cowardly, or have useless moral qualms about making _necessary_ decisions.”

 _Is that why you broke up with Martin?_ Jon thought helplessly even as he hummed a vague, agreeable noise. Anger and indignation on Martin’s behalf churned within him, and his face felt very, very warm. _Because of his ‘useless moral qualms’?_

He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take before he put his new punching skills to good use.

“Well, would you look at that,” Mike remarked, startling Jon out of his distraction. “Out of tea. What a shame, I was having a nice time.”

“Oh, as was I,” Jon replied, imagining for a wild moment that Mike could hear the way his heart suddenly battered against his ribs. “Didn’t even notice the time going. How long has it been?”

“Long enough, I suppose,” Mike replied, with a bit of reluctance. “And on that note, I’ve made my decision.”

The world turned on its head, and Jon plummeted in piecemeal: his heart first, followed by the rest of him. _Oh, I’ve lost_ , he thought dimly, before he blinked and the world righted itself again.

Mike appeared unfazed, as if nothing amiss had happened. Everything else on the rooftop was as it had been, for the most part. The tea set before them was clean and untouched, the napkins spotless. Martin was all the way back by the rooftop entrance, leaning against the door for balance. And Jon was sitting up straight in his chair, with a sturdy parapet wall separating him from a thirteen-story fall.

“Oh,” Jon said faintly. “So does this mean…?”

“I have to admit, I was surprised,” said Mike. “You’re… not quite what I expected. Though I suppose Jane isn’t the most reliable of sources, and Jared… well. Jared just doesn’t have the brains for this sort of thing.”

Jon’s face went politely blank out of habit, and an agreement sat ready on his tongue. He pursed his lips to keep it back.

“So, you’ve convinced me,” said Mike. “It would be a shame to throw you off.” Leaning forward, he reached across the table to shake Jon’s hand. Jon accepted the gesture, all the while imagining throwing the contents of the teapot in his face.

“Right, well, thank you.” His own mouth felt awkward, as if it wasn’t wholly his own anymore.

“And I wish you luck,” Mike went on, rising to his feet. Jon followed suit, blinking rapidly when his head swam. The parapet wall was back. He wouldn’t fall. He could even see the street again, far below—

Best not to think about the street right now.

“—that’s if you choose to continue,” Mike was saying.

“I’m sorry?” Jon’s stomach swooped. He really ought to pay better attention, even if the challenge was over.

“It’s just, I can tell you’re used to… a sophisticated crowd,” said Mike. “If that makes sense. I just hope you know what you’re getting into, with Martin. He’s good company, I suppose, and he tries very hard. It’s endearing! But he may not be on your level after all.”

In the back of Jon’s addled mind, something snapped. “Is the challenge over?” he asked. “I’ve won?”

“Well, if you want to be reductive about it,” Mike sighed. “But yes, you’ve won my challenge.”

“Good,” said Jon. “Keep Martin’s name out of your mouth, and go fuck yourself.”

His stomach flipped in freefall again, but it was worth it just for the look on Mike Crew’s face.

He crossed the roof in a daze. The challenge was over, wasn’t it? Should the world still be tilting from side to side like that? Jon knew, at least rationally, that the building beneath his feet was motionless and steady—otherwise Martin would be swaying as well—he couldn’t shake the feeling that at any moment, the roof might tip over and send him tumbling off into empty air.

He felt untethered, half-convinced that if he looked to the side, he’d see that void again. Unconsciously he picked up speed, because the sooner he reached Martin, the sooner he could hold him and not let go.

As soon as he was close, he reached out, and Martin stepped back.

Startled, Jon listed forward and nearly fell over. “Martin?”

He couldn’t read what was on Martin’s face, but whatever it was, he didn’t like it. Martin’s mouth was a tight line, his eyes carefully avoiding Jon’s face.

“A-are you alright?” Martin asked after a moment.

“Better than I was, after the last one,” Jon answered. Belatedly he remembered that his last challenge had technically been Tim’s. “I-I mean, after Jared’s.”

Martin nodded, still looking anywhere but at Jon’s face. “That’s good, then.”

He was so close. He just wanted to reach out and _cling_ , to be surrounded by warm, wide arms, to remind himself that he had two feet on the ground and wasn’t going to fall. But Martin didn’t want that; he hadn’t said it, but he didn’t have to, not with the way he was drawing into himself like that.

“I-I was thinking…” Jon said when the silence got to him. “We could, uh… drinks? Or…” He wasn’t really feeling a pub night. Mostly he just wanted to shut his eyes and huddle close for a while. More than anything he wanted to get down off this damn rooftop.

“Maybe not a good idea,” Martin mumbled. “Um. This was… a lot.”

“Right.”

“I’ll text you later?” Martin added, with a bit of forced levity. “I just…”

“No, it’s alright,” Jon said. New priority—end the conversation so he could get down off the building. “It’s… I understand. Talk later, then.”

He barely waited for an answer. The roof access door was unlocked, the stairs were clear, and the wait for the elevator flew by. He realized his mistake when it descended, and he clung with white-knuckled hands to the polished metal bar at the back until he landed shaking on the ground floor. Once free, he hurried through the lobby and out the front entrance, swallowing a sob of relief when he felt the pavement under his feet again.

Jon wandered the rest of the way home in a fog, caught between sick and wrong and nauseous and _afraid,_ of what he couldn’t say. He realized only as he stood on his doorstep and fumbled for his keys that he hadn’t checked his phone once, hadn’t even glanced at his messages to see if Gerry had texted.

The door opened, and Jon realized with a buzzing jolt that he’d been struggling to unlock it for well over a minute.

“Jon?” Suddenly Gerry was there, warm and solid and real and reaching out to him. Without a word, Jon met him in the middle.

There were arms around him, surrounding him, holding him fast to the ground to keep him from falling into the sky. Next was the couch under him, gentle hands helping him wrestle out of that stupid, hated jacket. And then the arms were back, pulling him close, pressing his head gently against Gerry’s chest so that he could feel his heartbeat and the rumble of his voice.

Jon shut his eyes, breathed, and waited for the rest of the world to stop spinning.

* * *

Martin stared blankly down at his folded hands, his mind running through the same circular thoughts, like a car on a racetrack.

He’d learned a lot about relationships over the years. It had almost been a necessity, considering how many terrible ones he’d been in. Long hours had been spent online, sifting through advice columns, taking personality and compatibility quizzes, reading blogs about what to look for in a relationship. He wouldn’t exactly call himself an expert, but he had a wealth of experience and knowledge to draw on.

_Pay attention to how they treat people who aren’t you. How do they talk to servers in restaurants? To the exhausted woman at the customer service desk? To their friends?_

Jon had always been polite, if a little bit awkward with strangers. Well, sometimes he got caught up in petty little arguments when the other person accidentally pressed one of his buttons, but that happened infrequently. It was kind of funny actually, watching Jon gesticulate emphatically to get his point across, while the other person became increasingly more incensed by this pedantic little man. _Right?_

Martin...hadn’t actually seen Jon interact with that many strangers. They’d only known each other for a few months now, and that was hardly enough time to truly get to know a person.

A shudder rolled through him, and he tightened his grip until his knuckles turned white, before relaxing again. This felt like such a treacherous train of thought when Jon wasn’t even here to defend himself properly, but—

_The way Jon’s expression had shifted, from nervous and uncertain to calm and sure, a polite smile on his face. The way he’d laughed so naturally at Mike’s terrible stories. “High risk, high reward,” like they were both in on a joke at everyone else’s expense._

Where had that _come_ from? At the start of the challenge, Martin had been sure that Mike would run ragged circles around Jon, but instead they’d engaged on an even playing field. More than that, Jon had _won_ , and handily at that.

He’d wanted him to win! Obviously he hadn’t wanted Jon to be thrown off a roof. He just hadn’t expected him to match Mike so… _effortlessly_. Like he’d slipped into something familiar and comfortable.

So Martin had no idea what he was supposed to think, or how he was supposed to feel. Because what if that side, that cruel and cold and distant version of Jon, was more true to his character than the awkward but earnest person Martin had come to treasure? What if—what if over time, Jon became just another to see and treat Martin as an unwanted joke, just like Mike had?

Martin didn’t want to become the punchline of another fucking joke. He’d had far too much of that for one lifetime already.

How did you even approach a conversation like that, though? _Hi, sorry, but you were kind of acting like a pompous asshole earlier, and I was just checking to see if that was going to be a recurring thing._ Even if he _was_ a pompous jerk though, there was no way he’d say so out loud. His only options were to assume that he’d just witnessed Jon’s true nature and leave, or wait around and see if he got burned.

Those didn’t feel much like options at all.

Martin tipped his head back and breathed out a low, slow stream of air, torn about Jon, and ashamed at his doubt over a man who’d literally gotten eaten by worms for him, and indignant because he had a _right_ to question this. He had a right to wonder if he was being duped because it had happened so many times before, and…

His pocket was buzzing.

For a moment Martin didn’t react, just stared up into the iron grey sky and wondered why his pocket was doing such a thing. Then it registered, and he quickly fumbled his phone from his pocket and blinked in surprise at the caller ID.

“Melanie?” he asked, his voice distant and curious even to his own ears.

“Hi Martin,” Melanie said, sounding vaguely harried. “I’m here, but I’m having trouble finding you, and Jon’s not answering his phone. Where are you?”

Martin reflexively glanced at the empty space beside him, as though Jon would just magically appear in the space beside him. “He’s not here.”

A confused pause. “...excuse me?”

“He’s not here,” Martin repeated with a sigh.

“And...you still are?” Melanie sounded like she was desperately trying to make sense of a puzzle, but the pieces weren’t fitting into a discernable image.

Martin didn’t understand what the confusion was; Jon had been here, and then he hadn’t. Simple. “Yes.”

“O...kay,” Melanie said, and there was a touch of concern in her voice now. “Where are you, then?”

Martin glanced around, and then rattled off an approximate description of his location. She thanked him, hung up, and a few seconds later came around the corner, her face lighting up when she saw him. Her cheeks were red and her hair was in disarray, as though she’d been running.

“Hello,” she greeted cautiously as she approached, her keen eyes flicking up and down his form.

“Hello,” Martin responded.

Melanie gave him an expectant look, as though she thought he was going to say something else. When he didn’t, she shook her head and dropped onto the bench beside him, hooking her arm over the back of it. Her easy, careless demeanor was betrayed by the tightness in her jaw and the way her eyes never quite seemed to settle, like she was searching for a hidden threat.

“So,” she began. “What happened?”

Martin thought about that for a moment. He knew that she wasn’t asking about the challenge itself, but rather trying to figure out the source of his strange behavior, the reason that Jon had vanished into thin air.

Apparently he thought about it for a moment too long, because Melanie drummed her fingers impatiently against the top of the bench and gritted out, “Any day now, Martin.”

“He won,” Martin began, because that was as good a place to start as any.

Melanie let out a snort that was anything but amused. “Okay, great! That tells me precisely _nothing.”_

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice weakening until it was almost a whisper. “I’m having trouble putting it into words.”

She took a deep breath, then another, and visibly forced herself to put her hands in her lap. “Right. Right, I’m sorry, I’m just...you realize how worrying this is, right? That you’re,” she gestured in his general direction, “like _this,_ and Jon’s just _gone?”_

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

So he opened his mouth and laid it all out as best he could. The towering skyscraper, which had seemed to be impossibly tall; the dizzying secondhand vertigo he’d felt, seeing Jon’s chair sat so close to the edge; that familiar way Mike had smiled. The way Jon had smiled _back,_ the way he’d bantered and taunted like it was easy, like he’d somehow always been in on the game.

The way his triumph had rested in the curve of his lips, the uncanny gleam of his eyes when he’d turned to look at Martin.

Melanie was quiet as he spoke, absentmindedly rubbing her thumb and pointer finger together, her eyes focused on the middle distance. Her face darkened as he described the challenge, and by the time he was finished she was so tense she looked ready to snap.

“Is he okay?” she asked tersely.

Martin stared at her. “...what?”

“God, Jon…” Melanie ran her hands through her punky bob, causing it to stick up all over the place. “No wonder he ran off. Did he say where he was going?”

“Wait, what do you mean?” Martin shook his head, feeling as though he’d missed a step on the way up the stairs. “Why wouldn’t he be okay?”

Melanie stared at him. “I’m—I’m sorry, are you—” she broke off, gave the ground a hard, glancing look, and then groaned loudly. “No, of _course_ he wouldn’t have said anything, Jesus _fucking_ Christ Jon. Okay so—I’m sorry, this may be a weird question, what happened after the challenge? Did you say anything to him?”

That ominous feeling in his stomach was growing. “I—nothing, I didn’t say _anything.”_

“Are you sure?” Melanie pressed. “Do you remember anything at all _?”_

“To be honest, I was a little freaked out,” Martin admitted self-consciously. “I just—I’d never seen that side of him before, and…” he trailed off when Melanie groaned again and buried her face in her hands. “What?”

Melanie sat there for a moment, unmoving, little better than a statue. Then she released the breath she’d been holding and leaned back in her seat, giving her shoulders a quick roll, like a weightlifter preparing to lift something heavy. “Okay, well, you need to go find him.”

Martin blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Listen, I can’t…” she trailed off, face twisting up in a frustrated knot. “I’m not willing to go into detail when Jon hasn’t told you, but none of that was Jon. He…” she hesitated. “Look, you’re not the only one with baggage, alright? And from the sound of it, it _sounds_ like he had to bring up some of that baggage to win, and he’s probably very upset about it, and you should talk to him, actually _.”_

There was a beat of silence as Melanie stared very hard into his face, her eyes dark and intent.

Martin realized what she wanted from him with a start. “What, right _now?”_

Melanie let out an indignant noise, her arms waving aimlessly in his general direction. “Yes _now!_ If you care about that man at all then _go,_ for god’s sake!”

“Okay!” Martin yelped, jumping to his feet as though he’d been burned. “Right! I’m going!”

“Good!” Melanie responded with equal fervor, ushering him away with her arms. “And I will be _very_ upset if I hear that you chickened out!”

He quickly started power walking in the direction of the bus stop, feeling a bit harried and off kilter from her overly enthusiastic encouragement. But he’d needed it, he realized with a guilty lurch. If she hadn’t come along he probably would’ve sat there for hours, trapped in his fear and indecision, which wouldn’t have helped him _or_ Jon.

Just as he was about to round the corner, he glanced over his shoulder, and saw that Melanie was still sitting on the bench. She looked...deflated somehow, her shoulders and back bowed.

Martin bit his lip, set his jaw, and turned his gaze forward.

The ride to Jon’s flat felt excruciatingly long now that Martin had a purpose, and he couldn’t help but tap his foot impatiently as he watched the scenery roll by. He concocted scenarios in his head of Jon (or the mysterious Gerry?) answering the door and inviting him inside. They’d sit down, and Jon would sigh in that familiar way of his and explain what that all had been about, and reassure him that they were okay _._ And maybe they’d cuddle and watch a movie or something, and everything would be _fine._

Martin kept running through what he was planning on saying in his head up until the moment he stopped at the front door, his fists clenched by his sides. His nerves felt like living things, chewing at his insides.

 _Talk to him about it,_ Melanie’s voice echoed.

He took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.

There was a beat, and then another, and Martin looked nervously up and down the street, rubbing his arms in the light chill. There was no response for so long that he wondered if he should knock again. Maybe they weren’t home.

He was just lifting his hand when the door suddenly slammed open to reveal an unfamiliar person. They were tall and handsome, dressed in all black, from the kitty slippers to the leather jacket to the shitty dye job. Strangest of all were the many eyes that had been tattooed on the joints of their hands and at the top of the sharp cut of their cheekbones.

Also, they were giving Martin one of the meanest glares that he’d ever experienced in his life.

“Can I help you?” Gerry said frostily, his steely grey eyes giving Martin a clinical onceover. “I’m kind of busy right now.”

“Um…” Martin hesitated, taken aback by the sheer hostility radiating in his direction. Jon had said that Gerry was _excited to meet him._ “I was hoping to speak with Jon…?”

“Yeah, well,” Gerry shifted so that he was filling the doorframe. He was a bit shorter than Martin, but that didn’t stop him from trying to loom intimidatingly. “He’s unavailable right now. You’ll have to come back some other time.”

“O-Oh…” Martin nodded slowly, still bewildered by Gerry’s odd behavior.

“Gerry,” a voice said from deeper within the flat, so ragged and thready that Martin almost didn’t recognize it at first. “Let him in.”

Gerry’s expression flipped from pissed off to concerned so quickly that Martin was almost taken aback. He didn’t budge from the doorway, but twisted around just enough to send a pleading look behind him. “Jon…”

“I’m okay,” Jon sighed, and then his slight frame appeared behind Gerry’s. He was no longer wearing the outfit from earlier, and his eyes were rimmed with red. When he reached up to lay a hand on Gerry’s shoulder, it was shaking slightly. “It’s probably best that we have this conversation now rather than later.” When Gerry didn’t move, Jon added, with a touch of pointed firmness, “Alone.”

 _He was crying,_ Martin realized with a jolt of horror.

Gerry glanced between them, the resolve in his expression wavering in the face of Jon’s quiet, firm certainty. Finally he pressed his lips into a tight, disapproving line and stepped back, silently gesturing for Martin to pass.

He could feel Gerry’s eyes on him as he stepped into their small but cozy living room, which was decorated with a few pieces of ratty furniture and a small, beat up flatscreen TV. A small black cat who could only be Dame Nevermore gave him a haughty look from the chair, observing him with her bright eyes.

Jon sat down on the couch and rested his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together fitfully. Gerry favored him with one last unreadable look before scooping the Dame up, depositing her in Jon’s lap, and disappearing down the hall, presumably into his bedroom. Martin shuffled around awkwardly, and eventually decided to sit in the squishy looking chair.

“So.” Jon began, his voice perfunctory almost to the point of being brusque. “Let’s talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: implications of past emotional abuse, discussions of unethical business practices, acrophobia, panic attacks.
> 
> Next time on the Power of Self Respect: Jonathan Sims' Precious Little Life


	6. Jonathan Sims' Precious Little Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed warnings in the end notes.

The silence in the flat was almost oppressive as they sat. Jon could feel Martin’s searching gaze on him, but he didn’t think he was up to that sort of sustained eye contact right now, and kept his gaze firmly on the floor. Dame Evermore, perhaps sensing his tension, was obligingly still as he ran his fingers through her dark fur.

“So,” Jon began, at the same time as Martin said, “Listen, Jon—”

They both stopped, and Jon finally met Martin’s gaze, and found his surprise reflected in kind.

“You first,” Jon said quickly, waving an encouraging hand in Martin’s direction. “I—I think you were planning on answering my question anyway. Maybe.”

Martin bit his lip, his eyes falling to some indeterminable point in the distance. “I...I want you to ask me anyway. I’m not entirely sure how to start on my own.”

A little flicker of sympathy passed through Jon at that. He hated to push what was obviously an uncomfortable topic, but Martin had come here of his own volition. “Okay. If you’re sure.” At Martin’s nod, he steeled himself and asked, “What happened after the challenge ended?”

Martin let out a slow breath like the sigh of wind passing through the trees. “Well...being there with Mike, seeing you interact with him—the _way_ you interacted with him—brought up some bad memories.”

Here there was a brief pause, but Jon didn’t speak, getting the feeling that Martin was working up to something. Sure enough a few seconds later Martin continued, his eyes glued to his hands, which were twisted in his lap.

“Like he said, we first started dating right around when he first became successful, and it was really, really good at first. He was polite and charming, and he never seemed to care about the...quite frankly astronomical wealth gap between us. He even seemed to _like_ it. Said I was a breath of fresh air after interacting with pompous arseholes all day.” Martin let out a low, derisive laugh. “He has a way of making you feel special. It’s why he’s so good at what he does.”

Jon’s mind went back to the charismatic man he’d met earlier that day, and he murmured a low agreement. For all that he was a self-centered, callous bastard, there was something strangely compelling about his impeccable manners, even if they were wrapped around unpleasantness.

“But...I don’t know if he was always like that, or if the wealth and fame were getting to him or whatever, but he started to change. Started making passive aggressive comments about my clothes, my, my job, my _work ethic.”_ He spat the last two words like they were poison, color beginning to flood his cheeks. “Then one day I, I read a news article about his company that made me really take a step back. I’m sure you’ve at least heard about it, it was that piece about the awful work environment.”

“I think so?” Jon hazarded. He really wished that he’d paid more attention to this sort of thing.

Martin shook his head, seemingly uncaring of Jon’s ignorance. “I guess it’s the same old song and dance, but I’d thought that Mike was _different._ I thought he was the sort of person who actually cared about that sort of thing. But when I confronted him about it, he just laughed me off. Said that ‘sometimes sacrifices had to be made’, like he wasn’t just playing with people’s lives!”

Martin’s face was red, and his hands were shaking, and he was legitimately still angry about this, Jon realized with a start.

“I should’ve left right then, god knows that I _wish_ I had. But I thought that—I don’t know. You’re going to think I’m naive, but I thought that I could be a good influence. Change him for _good.”_

Jon thought about saying something, but quickly bit his lip when Martin kept going, caught up in the residual anger and frustration of that time.

“It kept getting worse though. And one day he just—just snapped. Said that I didn’t understand anything, that this was why I was never going to be able to be a part of the industry _or_ his life.” Martin sniffed. “Then he broke up with me.”

_“Christ,_ Martin,” Jon whispered, horrified.

“I mean—in retrospect, it was really obvious how it was all going to go down,” Martin waved helplessly. “But I guess—d’you want to know the worst part of it?”

“It gets worse?” Jon tried for dry humor, but his voice came out shaky with dread.

“Well, no. Yes? I don’t know.” Martin stopped, his lower lip caught between his teeth. “The whole time, he just… he never actually got… _mean_ about it?” Jon’s incredulity must have shown on his face, because Martin shook his head quickly. “No, I—I know how that must sound, but when I think back on it, on the times we, you know, talked… I can’t think of any time we really argued about anything. Or—or _fought_ , I guess. I know I said he snapped, but he didn’t actually… he didn’t raise his voice. Even at the start, when he was putting me down, it never felt like I was being put down because he just… he couched everything as _advice_ , or _encouragement_ , or…” Martin gestured vaguely. “Right up until the end. He was just so _polite_ about everything. Sometimes—sometimes I wished he’d just get over himself and lose his temper. Just get angry with me. Because then it’d mean I could get angry, too, and it wouldn’t make me…” His voice trailed off as he hunted for a word.

“Childish,” Jon murmured, half to himself. Beside him, Martin startled a bit. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

“No, it’s alright. That’s… yeah. Childish.” Martin sniffed again. “And I didn’t notice the change, because of how it happened. I didn’t see it for so long, because I wanted to be _happy_ , and then…” He hesitated again, shooting a miserable look at Jon. “And seeing him again, it brought a lot of the other stuff back. Like Jane, and Jared—me and Jared didn’t last as long because he did the same stuff, he was just _meaner_ about it, you know? Like he could shine a light on all the bits of myself I didn’t like, and it _hurt_ , and I still—I still see some of that stuff, sometimes, when I look in a mirror, but at least I _knew_ he was mean.”

He paused again. To breathe, to settle himself, to take a break from ripping himself open. Jon longed desperately to reach across the space between them, but he wasn’t sure his touch was welcome.

“So…” Martin’s voice was low and quiet; Jon might not have heard him if all, if the rest of the room hadn’t been totally silent. “I guess… it spooked me, when you and Mike were talking, and… and you slipped so easily into talking like he did.”

Jon went still, and in the back of his mind he noted that Martin didn’t rush to reassure or correct himself. He simply sat there on the couch, eyes flickering between the floor and, in brief instances, Jon’s face.

“...Right,” Jon murmured. “Okay. That… that does make sense.”

“I always kick myself for not leaving him sooner,” Martin said. “But honestly, even after he started feeling… above me. Untouchable. It made me chase after the affection even more. But… not once. _Not once_ did I ever feel like I was really good enough for him.”

“Martin—” Jon reached across, stopping himself just short of touching Martin. What could he say? What was there to apologize for? He couldn’t… it wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Gerry told him that, even after Jon had spared no details.

“So anyway, that’s what’s going on with me,” Martin went on. “Then Melanie showed up and said—well, she said a lot of things, but mostly she said I should talk to you about it, so. Here I am.”

This was a test, Jon realized with a start.

Well no, that wasn’t quite accurate, was it? More that Martin had seen something in Jon on the roof, something that reminded him of people like Jared, like Mike _._ He wanted some sort of reassurance that Jon wasn’t just like them.

The worst part was that Jon could understand that fear, knew the heady shape and taste of it.

“It’s not a very nice story,” Jon told Martin quietly. “And it may take a while to tell.”

“That’s fine. Not like mine was nice, either.”

Jon favored him with a quiet, contemplative look, absently scritching the Dame behind her ears as he did so. Then he let his eyes drift away. “Six years ago, I was hired by the Magnus Institute.”

Martin frowned. “I don’t think I’ve heard of it?”

Jon let out a derisive noise and shook his head, unable to look at Martin for a different reason this time. “You wouldn’t have. It’s not the most widely-known academic institution in the world. It’s...well, it’s dedicated to the research of mythology, folklore, that sort of thing.”

“Oh.” Martin’s voice was slow and full of incredulity. “What does that entail, exactly?”

“Well, it’s got an archive,” Jon listed dutifully. “And a library, and a research department. And it… we took statements for the public, concerning their experiences with… well, _modern folklore_ is how we used to describe it.”

“Jon,” Martin interrupted, a look of stunned comprehension on his face. “You didn’t work for a place that investigated ghost encounters and haunted buildings and such, did you?”

Jon scrubbed his hand over his cheek, embarrassed. “Would it make it any better if I said we were actually pretty respectable, all things considered? We researched a wide variety of cultural phenomena, and we were decently funded by, you know, eclectic rich people who had far too much time and money on their hands.”

Martin opened his mouth, then shut it, disbelief flitting across his face. He must have decided to save his questions for some other time, because he eventually shook his head and gestured for Jon to continue.

“For the first three years, I worked in the research department, and it was...to me, it was satisfying. I _liked_ that sort of thing, being able to see my hard work culminate into something tangible…” he trailed off, feeling a little pang of wistfulness at the memory. “I think if I had stayed in research, I would probably still be there.”

He fell silent for a moment, thinking about that time—how easy it had all been, how _uncomplicated._ He shook his head, and forced himself to continue.

“Then the previous Head Archivist died, I think of a heart attack? And I was asked to fill her shoes.” Jon shifted, and the Dame _mrred_ quietly at his movements. He patted her apologetically. “Which...I mean, it sounds a bit obvious when I say it out loud. I had no idea what I was doing, I didn’t have a degree in library sciences or anything. I was just handed an ill-kept archive and expected to put it into some semblance of working order.”

“That sounds...awful,” Martin said cautiously, the way one did when they didn’t actually understand, but was trying to be sympathetic.

“There were thousands of records,” Jon said dully. “The old archivist had a convoluted system that only she knew how to navigate, which apparently created some problems for the rest of the institute. She was a bit stubborn though, and refused to let herself be managed by the head of the institute—” and here his throat almost closed up, and he had to swallow once, twice, just to get the words out, “—Elias Bouchard, that is. After she died, Elias saw an opportunity to finally run things the way _he_ wanted to.”

He paused to wipe his sweaty palms on his pants, and dragged a shaking hand through his hair.

“I don’t think he stopped seeing the archives as an extension of her, even after she died. Like if he brought them under his control, then it was like he was bringing the _memory_ of her under his control. Or—or maybe he just enjoyed having that kind of power over other people. I don’t know, it’s hard not to try and make sense of it all, to—to try and justify it in some way, like that’ll make it _better_. It doesn’t change what happened in the end, I suppose.

“So I get it,” he continued, twisting toward Martin, desperate for him to understand. “I get what it’s like to be held to these _impossible_ standards, to chase after the approval of someone you’ll never get it from, because that’s exactly how it was with Elias. He would always set impossible deadlines, or had unreasonable expectations, but it was never good enough. _I_ was never good enough. And it’s—it’s just like you said! It was, it was never mean, or cruel. He’d just get so disappointed in me, and I couldn’t help but feel as though I was always failing him.”

His voice broke on the last word, and he twisted his head away, biting his lip against the prickling in his eyes. No matter how many times he’d gone over it in therapy, with Gerry, even in his own head, it never got any easier to talk about.

Martin’s voice was small and sorrowful. “Jon…”

“Sometimes I still wonder,” he barrelled on, swiping a hand across his eyes. “If I was overreacting, if things would’ve gotten better if I could’ve just stuck it out.” He gestured toward his head, “I know it wouldn’t have been, up here,” then toward his heart, “but it’s hard to internalize it, here.”

Silence once again reigned, but it was a kinder one than before, like a tensed bowstring allowed to unspool. The Dame finally let out a low, rumbling purr, and began kneading her claws into Jon’s thigh.

“Darling,” Jon sighed with a wince. “Anyway, that’s where it came from.”

It took Martin a moment to reply. “What?”

“The…” It was Jon’s turn to gesture vaguely. “Before. When I was talking to Mike, and I was… different.” He paused, waiting for Martin to reply, or interrupt, or pull a sour face, something. But Martin simply sat and watched him, waiting for him to continue. “It’s just, it wasn’t just the workload. Maybe if it was just the workload it wouldn’t have… I don’t know. I suppose it was the culture of it, as well.” He shifted gingerly in his seat, careful not to dislodge his cat. “The thing is, the institute had a number of wealthy donors. Has, I suppose, it’s not like it’s gone anywhere. But there’s this whole… song and dance, with people like that. It’s not good enough to give them results, you have to…” He wrinkled his nose, remembering how some of the other institute heads had put it. “ _Wine and dine_ them. Fundraisers, little parties. I didn’t have to think about them when I was just a researcher, but then, with the promotion…”

He stopped. He had to, if only for a moment. The Dame was being a very good sport about him using her as a stress ball.

“I didn’t like it,” he said at last, feeling helplessly childish. “But I didn’t have a choice. Or, maybe I did? It didn’t feel like it. Felt like the whole institute rested on my shoulders, and if I failed I’d let it fall. And I wasn’t even _good_ at it. I knew it, Elias knew it. I wasn’t like them. That’s why I hated it so much, I was trying _so hard_ to be the Head Archivist when all I would ever be was some—some scruffy researcher with ink stains on his sleeves, and I was _never_ more aware of that than when Elias had me dressing up and parading in front of—” He had to stop again.

There was a quiet thud as Martin’s hand landed in the space between them. Jon wasn’t quite ready to reach back yet.

“But at the end of the day, it’s a skill like any other, isn’t it?” Jon went on, once he’d steadied himself again. “Just… talking to people. Figuring out what they want to hear. So I learned, until I was good at it.” His teeth met in his thumbnail. “I don’t like the person I am when I talk like that. I’m bad at ignoring awful things. But that’s what you have to do, with people like that. And I had to, because Elias wouldn’t let me stop.”

“Jon,” Martin said quietly.

“I’m not—I’m no saint,” Jon went on, biting down to the quick. “I’m not the only one who had it bad. I was miserable, and so were the people around me, and some of it was because of _me_ —”

_“Jon,”_ Martin said again, and the implicit command in his voice made Jon’s mouth snap shut. His gaze was glued on Jon’s thumb. “Can you _please_ stop biting your nail? I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Jon started and looked down at his finger, which...did look like it was getting to the point where it was about to draw blood. He forced himself to put his hand down, reflexively smoothing his hands down the Dame’s back, which only made her purr louder.

“Okay,” Martin said, voice calm despite the brightness in his eyes. “Thank you—thank you for telling me that. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Jon didn’t say anything; his insides felt as though they’d been scrubbed raw with iron wool, and he didn’t trust his voice not to shake on the way out.

“I think that I should apologize,” Martin said, his face tight and miserable. “For the way I reacted after the challenge ended. I got scared, because I thought I was seeing a mask come off. I didn’t realize you were actually putting one on.”

Jon licked his chapped lips. “It’s okay. It wasn’t an unfair assumption to make.”

“But it still wasn’t fair to you,” Martin insisted. “Especially after— _god,_ just being at the top of that building was terrifying, never mind being that close to the edge.”

Jon shivered and had to grip the arm of his chair at the reminder of the neverending, hungry sky so close to his feet. “It...wasn’t pleasant, but none of what I said negates the fact that your reaction was understandable.”

“I should’ve talked to you, at least. Given you a chance to explain instead of just assuming the worst.”

Jon tried to search for some way to argue against that, but came up blank. “I...alright,” he sighed. “Alright.”

Martin’s hand still rested between them on the couch cushions. At last, Jon reached back to take it.

“Sometimes I can’t believe you’re still here,” Martin said, eyes downcast as if talking to the sofa cushions was easier than talking to Jon.

“Yeah, well. I’ve been told I’m not very good at giving up on something I’ve set my mind to,” Jon admitted. “So I’ve set my mind to something that makes me happy.”

The heel of Martin’s hand went to his eyes, up and down again before Jon had spotted any moisture around them. Martin’s quiet laugh was a little watery, but he didn’t cry. Instead he shifted over on the couch and tugged on Jon’s hand, gently enough that Jon could have pulled away if he wished.

“Can I—?” he began, before Jon pressed into the waiting hug.

It didn’t tether him to the earth like it would have earlier; between Gerry, the Dame, and a brimming mug of tea, Jon’s feet had been quite firmly on the ground before Martin had even arrived. Still, after their parting on the rooftop, it was nice to close the loop: offering an embrace, and receiving one.

“I should talk to Gerry,” Jon said after a moment, slightly muffled into Martin’s shoulder. The Dame had left his lap to avoid ending up between them, and was curled up on a couch pillow within easy petting reach, should either of them choose to let go.

Martin made an uncomfortable noise. “He didn’t look very happy with me, did he.”

Jon drew back, a little reluctantly. “He only knows my side of things, so far. And he’s… well.” He hesitated, wondering how much he ought to admit. Martin, bless him, didn’t press.

“After I quit my last job, I joined a support group,” he settled upon at last. Truth be told, that was an oversimplification of the arduous path from A to B. “For, ah, people recovering from abusive relationships. It was around then, that I met him.” That was the best he could describe it, without revealing that Gerry had been in the same group.

“Oh.” Martin nodded, understanding dawning in his eyes.

“He’s seen me through some bad times,” Jon went on. “He’s, ah, protective.”

“Yeah, I… sort of got that impression.” Martin laughed nervously.

“Actually, do you mind if I call him back in?” Jon asked cautiously. He’d definitely understand if Martin didn’t want that; Gerry hadn’t exactly given him the warmest of welcomes.

“Oh!” Martin considered that for a moment. “Yeah, absolutely. Although...are you sure it’s okay for _me_ to be here? Like I said, he didn’t exactly seem very happy to see me.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Jon said, with far more confidence than he actually felt. It was just that he loved them both, and maybe it was an immature hope, but he wanted them to like each other as well. Or at least, he wanted them to be able to be in the same room without something disastrous occurring.

Only a mere few seconds after the text was sent Gerry reappeared, which meant he’d probably been waiting for some signal to return. He gave Martin a brief, cool glance, before striding over to the couch and planting himself at the other end.

Then the Dame trotted over and demanded a cuddle, which did much to soften the harsh expression on his face.

“So,” he began, though it was clear from the way he was sitting that he was only addressing Jon. “How’d it go?”

“We’re—” Jon’s gaze flicked over to Martin. “We’re good now, I think. Right?”

“Yeah,” Martin responded. “Yeah, we are.”

Things fell awkwardly silent. Gerry sat and stroked the cat like the antagonist from the first Austin Powers, while Martin shrank in the chair, while Jon looked between them, increasingly distressed by the palpable tension in the air.

“So, um—” Jon’s optimism was beginning to feel painful, even to himself. “Gerry, this is Martin. Martin, Gerry.”

Luckily Gerry seemed to pick up on Jon’s distress, because he turned to Martin with a polite smile. “Nice to finally meet you face to face.”

Martin looked momentarily thrown by the sudden shift in demeanor, but then he forced himself to nod. “Same here.”

They all fell silent again, apparently lost for words.

“Why don’t we put on a movie?” Gerry suggested at last. “Jon, we’ve been meaning to rewatch _Sixth Sense.”_

“Right, yes, that sounds good,” Jon responded immediately, relieved. “Martin?”

“Alright with me.”

There was a brief shuffle as seating arrangements rearranged, with Martin joining Jon on the couch and Gerry moving to the chair with the Dame. Once they were settled Jon found the movie and hit play, before settling as close to Martin as he dared.

“Have you seen this before?” Jon asked curiously.

Martin shook his head. “No, but I’ve heard that it’s good.”

“It is,” Gerry tacked on, and then a light bulb sparked to life onscreen, and they all fell silent.

Jon tried to pay attention to the movie, he really did. But he’d underestimated how tired he was, and the longer the movie went, the harder it was to keep his eyes open. _Just one moment,_ he thought, barely noticing when his head tilted to lean against Martin’s shoulder. _I’ll just rest my eyes for one moment…._

* * *

It took until the end of the movie for Gerry to realize that Jon had fallen asleep.

He studied his best friend for a moment, framed by the soft light of the credits scrolling down the screen. It was no wonder he was so exhausted; his sleep hadn’t exactly been restful these past few weeks, and today had been stressful enough to bring a lesser person to their knees. Gerry was honestly kind of surprised he’d made it this far.

Martin was very, very still, and though his gaze was still fixed on the screen he was obviously determined not to disturb Jon, who was using him as a pillow.

Quite frankly, Gerry still had no idea what to make of the man. From the way Jon talked about him he’d hung the moon and the stars in the sky, and the sun for good measure. Except, Jon’s nightmares had never been so bad until that whole business with Jane had gone down. Except, Jon had gone to the hospital twice in less than a month. Except, just this afternoon Gerry had had to comfort Jon through a _panic attack,_ and learned afterward that Martin hadn’t even checked to make sure that he was _okay._

So, no. He wasn’t feeling all that charitable, thanks.

But at the same time, he knew that he wasn’t being fair. If Jon was right, then Martin was as much a victim in all of this as he was. That didn’t excuse some of his other actions, but it did make a small part of this awful situation better. It was difficult to give Martin the benefit of the doubt though, when he was only seeing the ugly aftermath.

The credits ended, and the screen changed back to the movie menu, a bright candle flame flickering in the background. Gerry reached over, grabbed the remote, and had almost gone to turn the TV off before Martin spoke.

“Listen, Gerry, I know that this probably isn’t the best first impression I could’ve made.”

Gerry shifted and lowered the remote. “You certainly have made an impression.”

A reluctant laugh. “Yeah, I—yeah. But, um, you’re really important to Jon? And Jon’s really important to me—”

“Yeah, I can tell how _important_ he is.” He knew it wasn’t fair even as he said it. But he couldn’t help it, and he couldn’t even bring himself to regret it. 

He expected Martin to flinch—most people flinched, most people expected the worst when Gerry snapped—so he wasn’t quite prepared for Martin to shoot a glare right back at him. 

“He _is._ ” Martin didn’t shout it. He barely moved, not with Jon exhausted and slumped against him. “I don’t care what else you think of me, but don’t you dare imply that I don’t think he matters.”

Gerry’s fingernails dug into his palms, hands shaking as he forced them to stay in his lap.

“Whether you like it or not, we’re both important to him,” Martin went on. “So I was hoping that we could at _least_ —”

“What, _get along?”_ Gerry snorted. “Forget about everything that happened? What’s _still_ happening?”

“No, _obviously_ not.” Martin shook his head, his shaggy brown hair swaying with the movement. “I just want a chance to prove that I’m more than,” he gestured vaguely at the world at large, “all of this. More than all the people who’ve hurt him. I need you to just—understand that I’m not part of it, and I don’t _want_ to be.”

“But you get why that’s hard, right?” Gerry couldn’t help the snap in his voice, but this time Martin didn’t react to it other than a slight tightening of his jaw. “I can’t just separate you from it that easily, not when everything that’s happened is _for_ you, or _because_ of you.”

Martin opened his mouth to respond, but Gerry didn’t give him a chance. “You want understanding? For a long time I had no one, and then I had _him._ And sometimes I get so fucking afraid that I’m going to lose him, and I know that’s irrational, but everything else I cared about was taken from me, so _why the hell is he any different?”_

Martin couldn’t have looked more surprised if Gerry had come up and slapped him.

“So when I see him throwing himself into danger _for you,_ and getting hurt _because of you,_ I just—it scares me. And I want to like you, Martin, I _really_ do, but I can’t just turn that off.”

There was another beat, an exhalation as they both took that in, adjusted to the new weight in the air. Gerry’s heart felt as though it was about to beat right out of its chest, and he drew himself up defensively, just in case.

Then Martin said, “You think I don’t get that?”

Gerry blinked. “What?”

“I mean I _know_ ,” Martin repeated. “This all feels like an awful, neverending nightmare sometimes. I thought that I’d left Jane and Jared and Mike behind me. I thought that I’d left _Peter_ behind me, but then they just all showed out of the blue, and—” he hesitated, favoring Jon with a tight-lipped glance. “...but he stayed. He _has_ stayed, even with everything that’s happened. That means more than I can put into words.”

Gerry couldn’t help but look at Jon as well; at the deep bruises beneath his eyes, the pockmarks of still-healing worm scars. The way he was curled even in his sleep, as though preparing himself for a blow.

“So I don’t like seeing him like this, either,” Martin went on.

“You haven’t been here for the nightmares,” Gerry cut him off, hating the way his voice cracked as he spoke.

All it did was earn him another razor-sharp glare. “Well he’s been through four fights, and I haven’t seen _you_ at a single one.”

Gerry flinched, and the air between them crackled in the silence that followed.

He saw Martin shift first, his scowl crumpling to regret. “Look,” he said finally, and for the first time, Gerry could look at the exhausted worry on his face and recognize it as his own. “You’re right, there’s a lot I’m not seeing, that you are. And I’m sorry for putting you through that—both of you. If I could stop it, I would, but I just—I don’t know what else to do. They weren’t supposed to _find_ me.”

The words landed like a kick to the chest.

“I hate the thought of losing him, but I would let him go in a heartbeat if it was what he wanted.” Martin shook his head. “But for some reason that’s _not_ what he wants. So...I think we just have to make do as best we can.”

It was one of his deepest nightmares, one so dark and gut-churning that he hadn’t even shared it with Jon, for all that Jon was central to it. The fact that it would never happen—could never happen—was his only consolation, but not enough to kill it entirely. It still persisted, lurking in the back of his mind, throwing a shroud on everything else the moment it caught his attention.

Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would have been like, if Jon had ever crossed paths with Mum. If there had been _any_ overlap between Jon’s time in his life, and Mum’s. It still kept him up at night, for all that Mum was dead and buried, and had been since well before he’d met Jon.

It wasn’t exactly the nightmare Martin was living at the moment, but it was pretty damn close, wasn’t it?

“Okay,” Gerry said at last, nodding slowly. “Okay.”

Martin gave him a hopeful look. “So you’ll…?”

“Like I said, it won’t be easy,” Gerry admitted. “But...yes, I’ll try.”

“Thank you.” Martin subsided with a soft, relieved sigh, and absently brushed a hand over Jon’s hair. Then he glanced down, eyebrows furrowing in concern. “God, he’s really out, isn’t he?”

“Like I said.” Gerry rose to his feet and stretched his arms above his head, wincing when his back popped loudly. The Dame let out a disgruntled sound and leapt to the floor, her long tail waving like a banner as she padded to her bed. “Hasn’t been getting much sleep lately.”

“Hmm.” Martin reached down and gently shook Jon’s shoulder. “Jon, the movie’s over.”

Gerry walked over and knelt in front of Jon, resting a hand on his knee when he failed to rouse. “Wait, let me see if I can get him to bed without waking him.”

Martin shot him an amused look. “Done this before, have you?”

Gerry shrugged, carefully wrapping an arm around Jon’s back and guiding him forward until his head rested on Gerry’s shoulder. “Not the first time he’s fallen asleep in front of a movie.” To Jon in a softer tone, “Come on, Jon. Let’s get you to bed.”

“G’rry?” Jon whispered dazedly as Gerry tucked an arm securely under his knees. Sleepy hands instinctively reached up to curl around his shoulders.

“Yeah, s’me.” He lifted slowly, adjusting incrementally to make sure that Jon wasn’t about to fall. Martin watched the whole process with round, watery eyes, his whole expression warm and impossibly fond. Gerry decided, right then and there, that Martin wasn’t actually all that bad. “For what it’s worth, I hope it works out.”

“Oh!” Martin shot him a surprised look, which quickly melted into pleasure. “Thanks. Me too.”

With one final nod, Gerry headed down the hall, Jon cradled safely in his arms.

* * *

There was a difference between going out with two friends and third-wheeling a date, and Jon was endlessly thankful for how good Georgie and Melanie were about drawing that distinction.

It had started out as a necessity, back when time alone with Georgie invariably left Jon an anxious, tight-lipped, and snappish mess. It wasn’t fun for either of them, and Jon had been waiting in dread for Georgie to give up and kindly suggest that they move on with their lives separately, when they found a solution in having Melanie there with them.

It was no hardship for her. They didn’t need a mediator, only a buffer. Jon couldn’t have explained why, but somehow the presence of a mutual friend simply made things easier. It probably didn’t even have to be Melanie; Jon was pretty sure Gerry would have worked, if Gerry weren’t so heavily biased about the whole thing. He could mind his manners for Jon’s sake, but civil wasn’t the same as friendly.

If there was one good thing about Mike Crew’s challenge, it was that it hadn’t involved any physical danger, for the most part. Which meant he could join his friends for lunch and window-shopping without parading around any new injuries. As long as they didn’t drag him onto any rooftops or double-decker buses, he was going to be fine.

And it was—Christ, it was just _nice._ He loved being with Martin, and they really ought to schedule another date soon, but Georgie and Melanie were his friends, and that meant he loved their company. It wasn’t quite the going-home-and-changing-into-pajamas feeling that quality time with Gerry brought, but it was comfortable and low-stakes. Just drinks with friends with nothing lurking at their peripheries.

Until, of course, Melanie ran out of work stories to rant about at the pub, and her ire turned elsewhere.

“Speaking of pretentious people,” she went on, lip curling into something between a grimace and a smirk. “Have you seen that article going around about a possible Mike Crew biopic?”

Georgie groaned out loud, while Jon took an increasing interest in his sandwich. “Already? He’s only been famous for, what, a few years? Five at most?”

“Exactly! They’ll make a movie about anyone these days.” Melanie waved a chip for emphasis. “What’s next? _Coming soon to a cinema near you, the subway pizza rat._ ”

Georgie snorted. “Is it bad that I’d watch that?”

“It’s more watchable than Mike Crew: the Movie,” Melanie said, sneering. “What do you think, Jon? Would you see it just for the train wreck?”

Jon stared at her. Really? She was bringing him up now? Right in front of Georgie?

He must have been silent too long, because soon Melanie scowled back. “Well you don’t have to look at me like that,” she grumbled. “You _like_ watching bad movies for fun.”

“Be that as it may,” Jon said testily. “If I ever see his face again, it’ll be too soon. And before you say anything, yes, I _know_ it’ll be an actor portraying him, but you also know he’ll demand some kind of background cameo.”

Melanie snorted. “True.” She paused. “Wait. What do you mean if you see his face _again?_ ”

Jon sent back to staring at her, willing her to take a hint, but she went on not comprehending. Their impromptu staring contest went on for another few seconds, before Jon abruptly realized that he was the one misunderstanding.

“Oh.” _Shit_. “Oh you don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?” Melanie asked, eyes narrowing. “What happened?”

Slowly, Jon lowered his sandwich. “Er.”

“Jonathan Sims, are you implying that you _met_ —”

“It’s just,” Jon blurted out, rapidly regretting the last few things to come out of his mouth. “I thought Martin would have told you.”

“What does Martin have anything to do with—?” Melanie stopped talking, and her eyes went wide, because Melanie could read a room if the situation called for it.

Jon avoided her eyes. Georgie looked on, perplexed.

“You’re telling me,” Melanie said, forcing her voice down. “That not only did you meet _Michael Crew,_ but you met him because you’re _dating his ex-boyfriend?_ ”

“Small world?” Jon said, wincing.

“And you—please tell me you punched him in the face.”

“Melanie!” Georgie scolded.

“It wasn’t really that kind of a challenge?” Jon said weakly. “More of a battle of wits, if anything.” He saw tension leave Georgie’s shoulders before he’d even realized it was there. “The worst part of it was the location. It was…” His stomach swooped at the memory. “Very high up.”

“So that’s a no on the punching,” Melanie sighed.

“Told him to go fuck himself,” Jon offered. “Does that help?”

“It does,” she said primly. “This time.”

“Okay, wait,” Georgie broke in. “Wait, wait. What are you two talking about? Jon, what—” She stopped, eyes narrowing in thought. “This… doesn’t have anything to do with the fashion advice you asked for, does it?”

Jon sighed. “Unfortunately.”

She searched his face carefully. “Is this one of those things you don’t want to talk about?”

Jon opened his mouth to reply in the affirmative. He closed it again. “That depends,” he said. “How much do you want to hear about it?”

Georgie chanced a searching sideways glance toward Melanie, who gave a half-hearted shrug. Then she turned back to Jon. “As much as you’re willing to tell me.”

Jon wavered for a moment, biting his lip. He _wanted_ to tell Georgie; she was grounded in a way that he and Melanie simply were not. It was just, he still had memories of when he worked at the Magnus Institute, when he would come home and she would frown and make a disappointed comment about him working late, and he would snap back and it would escalate from there. More than that, he was afraid she would think that he was doing this to himself.

She had made that assumption before, after all.

“Before I tell you,” Jon began carefully, “I want you to promise that you’ll let me finish, okay? Please don’t...preemptively jump to conclusions, or anything.”

Georgie gave him a bewildered look. “Of course? Why on earth would I do that?”

“I don’t know!” his hands fluttered fretfully. He could feel Melanie’s gaze on the side of his face, which was only making him more agitated. “I just wanted to make sure.”

Georgie let out a quiet sigh and gave Jon a tense, unhappy look. “Jon, I don’t want to push something if it’s going to make you this uncomfortable. But is it okay if I ask _why_ this is bothering you so much?”

“You’ve done it before.” He hesitated, then added, despite the way it made him feel like a child, “You’ve, you’ve not believed me before. I don’t…” _I don’t want that to happen again,_ he wanted to say. _I don’t think I’ll be okay if that happens again._ But he bit down on the words.

The twist of uncertainty and growing confusion on her face almost made him cringe. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“Guys—” Melanie leaned forward, as though planning to step between the two of them.

“There’s a _reason_ I never talked to you about Elias.”

There, he’d said it. The words had finally ripped that old wound open, ugly and raw and impossible to ignore. Melanie’s face was so perfectly neutral that it could only be forced, while Georgie was doing a pretty good impression of a beached fish. Jon wasn’t sure if his vision was swimming because he was getting tipsy, or if his anxiety was playing havoc with his senses.

“Are we doing this now?” Melanie suddenly asked, voice as unreadable as her expression. “You two are absolutely sure that you want to do this, right now?”

Instantly Jon wished he could take it back, crawl back into his shell and pretend he hadn’t started down this road. But he had, and even if he did try to take it back, he couldn’t make Georgie forget.

So he held his tongue, until Georgie said, quietly, “Guess we never did talk about that, have we.”

There was hurt in her voice. Of course there was; he’d hurt her back then, after all. And maybe, if he turned back now, it would only keep hurting.

So, Elias. He could talk about Elias again. He’d just done that with Martin, hadn’t he? Only, Martin hadn’t known anything, so he’d been able to start from the beginning and form the picture how he chose. Georgie had been in the thick of it.

He’d just have to be honest, regardless.

“It just felt like—sometimes, when I try to explain something, it feels like you come to a decision about it before I finish, and anything else I say about it just doesn’t enter into it.” There. That was a good starting point, wasn’t it? “Does that… make sense?”

“I… think so,” Georgie said warily. “Give me an example?”

“Well—alright. D’you remember how I used to bring work home with me? And then…” He winced. “And then I kept doing it, behind your back, after you asked me not to?”

“Yes.” Georgie’s voice was carefully neutral.

“And your solution was that I just—stop doing that. Save work for work hours, leave it all behind when I came home.”

“Right.”

“Which is reasonable,” Jon added. “Objectively. Now that I look at it in hindsight. But back then, in the moment, it just wasn’t.”

“I never got that,” said Georgie. “I still… kind of don’t, to be honest with you.”

“I don’t either! I don’t even know if I can explain the feeling of, of being made to think that everything rests on your shoulders, and if you let one thing slip, then everyone suffers. Because of _your_ mistakes. And I know it isn’t a rational way to think, but I just—I just _did_.”

“And spending every waking hour working helped?” There was no judgment in Georgie’s voice, just genuine curiosity.

“Felt like it did, at least,” Jon replied. “It felt like I was doing something. If I wasn’t working then I wasn’t doing enough, and everything would fall apart. It wasn’t true by any stretch, but it _felt_ like it.” He took a deep breath. “So, when I heard things like ‘just stop,’ or ‘they can’t force you to work on your off hours,’ it felt like… like a solution to a different problem than the one I had.”

“Okay,” Georgie said thoughtfully. “Okay. And what about all the other stuff? The, uh, ‘helpful advice’? The ‘you wouldn’t get it, Georgie’?”

Jon cringed at the memory. He always did. And now, with recent events, it made him think of Mike Crew, casually tearing Martin down for all the little things that made him Martin, treating him as lesser and couching it as a favor. “Therapist said I have pretty bad imposter syndrome,” he answered. “And… when you work in a place where it feels like you’re being watched and judged for every move you make, I suppose it’s inevitable that the feeling starts to follow you home.” He shut his eyes briefly. “I know I’ve said it before, but I’m sorry.”

“I can vouch for that part,” Melanie said, grimacing. “Bouchard was a nosy little creep, and he knew how to apply pressure.”

Georgie looked at her sharply. “He did that to you, too?”

“Oh, he was definitely getting started,” she said viciously. “Mainly just treated me like a lackey, though. Jon was always his _special little boy_.” Jon winced. “It’s true. First time I saw you, I thought you were his right hand man, with how much he had you running around.”

“Easy mistake to make,” Jon replied, voice thick with distaste.

Melanie shrugged. “I wised up and got out before he could decide to really sink his claws in.”

“Wait—but—okay.” Georgie broke in. “That’s what I’ve never understood, because—Melanie, you got out so quickly, and I’ve never understood why…” Her voice trailed off as she turned her eyes on Jon. _Why couldn’t you?_ she didn’t ask, but the question was clear enough.

“Honestly?” Melanie was slouching in her chair, brows drawn together in a sullen frown. “I got out _because_ of him. Because this one time…” She hesitated, looking to Jon as if for permission. He nodded once. “Right, so, one day I look up from my desk and see Jon, and he looks—well, bad. But I didn’t notice that at first. I only looked up because he wouldn’t stop tapping his foot. So I sort of snapped at him, and he snapped back, and it came out that he had a bit of work he had to get in by that night.” She took a deep breath. “Except I knew what work he was talking about, I knew Elias had just dropped it in his lap the day before, and I knew there was no way any reasonable person would expect it done in two days.” She took a deep breath. “So I called him on it and…”

“It’s a miracle I didn’t have a breakdown then and there,” Jon muttered. “God, that was a mess.”

“It was a turning point for me,” Melanie continued. “Realized I wasn’t looking at a crony, I was looking at the other end of the downward spiral Elias was trying to force me into. So I quit before he had the chance. Lost a good bit of money over some contractual bullshit I’d missed, but honestly, every day I don’t have that bastard breathing down my neck makes it worth it.”

“It was a turning point for me as well,” Jon added. “That’s when I realized that the problem wasn’t me at all. It’s when I decided to leave.”

“ _Jesus._ ” All the air seemed to leave Georgie at once. For a few moments she simply sat and absorbed all of it. Jon watched as her eyes flickered from side to side, connections forming in her mind, disparate details fitting together into a more cohesive picture. “I had no idea.”

“I know,” Jon said quietly. “It’s not as if I told you.”

“It feels as though I missed it when I shouldn’t have.” Georgie shook her head. “I could have asked, instead of just assuming… I don’t know what I thought.”

“I don’t know that I would’ve told you,” Jon admitted. “I didn’t really have the words to describe it, back then. That took some time.”

“Yeah…” Georgie pursed her lips.

“I want to make that clear,” Jon went on. “I’m not trying to blame you for anything. I just wanted to clear the air. Get us both on the same page.”

“Right, right.” Georgie’s hand passed over her face. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.” She looked to Melanie. “You, too.”

Melanie shrugged. “It’s nice to have it off my chest.” Then she sat up again, shoulders shrugging as if throwing off the last of it. “So, anyway. Jon?”

“Right.” With a jolt, he remembered where the conversation had begun. “So—on the subject of what I’m currently embroiled in.”

“Oh boy,” Georgie said, only half-joking. “No, seriously, just… tell me whatever you need. I’m all ears.”

With that, Jon laid it all out. Martin, Oliver, the exes and their challenges, everything. Thankfully it didn’t take very long to summarize. On paper at least, the concept was fairly simple. To Georgie’s credit, she only interrupted once, and it wasn’t a matter of believing him.

“Oh God.” Georgie’s face dropped into her hands. “Oh my God.”

“Is something wrong?” Jon asked, a little alarmed.

With a faint groan, Georgie dragged her hands back down to her chin. “I think I made an ass of myself in front of Martin.”

“No!” Melanie protested, looking dismayed.

“What? When?”

“Right, so, remember when I first met him outside your workplace, and you ran off because you had a phone call and were dodging questions about it?” 

“Yes,” Jon replied warily.

“I’m realizing now it was probably related to… to this whole thing.” Georgie gestured vaguely at him. “But at the time I thought you’d gotten into something and were also keeping it from him, so I may have offered some… unwarranted… advice.”

“Ah,” Jon said after a moment.

“I’m really sorry, _Christ_ I must have looked like an idiot.”

“It’s fine,” Jon assured her. “Not like you could’ve guessed at what was really going on.”

“Still!” Georgie flapped her hand distractedly. “Bad habit, butting in. Working on that. Anyway, you were saying?”

“Honestly, that’s about the whole of it,” Jon replied. “And—before you ask, because I have thought about it and others have brought it up for me, _no,_ Martin isn’t involved in any of this. He and I have already spoken extensively about this, and… there’s really no doubt in my mind. This isn’t some convoluted attempt to make me prove myself to him, it’s just…”

“A convoluted case of stalking and harassment, sounds like,” Melanie said dryly.

“Tell me about it,” Georgie agreed. “Is he alright?”

“As alright as he can be, I suppose.” Relief crept in, sinking deep enough to reach his bones. “It’s been harrowing for him, too.”

“Jon…”

“I know it’s risky,” Jon told her. “I know that. And if I didn’t before, I’ve had five opportunities to figure it out—well, three, Oliver and Tim set me up to win. But I’ve accepted it. This is important to me.”

“I can see that.” Georgie gave him a rueful smile.

“And besides, I told Gerry before—if I give up, what happens to Martin? I doubt the people behind this would leave him alone. There must be more they want from him.”

“Here’s another question,” Georgie said. “Do you think they’ll give up once you win?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jon admitted. “Probably not. I suppose I’ll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it.”

Reaching across the table, Georgie squeezed his hand. “Be careful, alright? Martin’s not the only person counting on you.”

For a moment Jon could hardly speak. He looked to Melanie, who shrugged and made a vague _what she said_ gesture in Georgie’s direction.

“I know,” he said at last. “And I will.”

* * *

Jon felt strangely light as he made his way home. Their outing had run a little longer than usual, and it was getting on to evening by the time he caught the train home.

It had been a good day. A lot of things were off his chest, and for the first time in a while, he could look forward to the next time he saw Georgie with none of the usual twists of emotion that came with it. Things with Georgie had once been uncomplicated, and now they were again, just with a different flavor of affection than before.

He didn’t like losing friends. He didn’t know what he would have done, if he’d lost Georgie for good.

Jon checked his phone without thinking, and only endured a split-second flash of unease before he noted no missed calls and no messages except two from Gerry. The first was a request that he text before he got home, and the second was a follow-up assurance nearly an hour later that the coast was clear, so to speak. With a smile, he put his phone away and rode his friendship high the rest of the way home.

The sun was going down as he made his way up the walk to the front door. He took his time unlocking it, just in case, and opened it to the sound of Dame Nevermore’s noisy greeting. He stooped to pick her up as he went inside, because it wouldn’t be the first time she did a runner, and he was in too much of a good mood to ruin things by chasing her down the street.

The flat smelled strongly of curry as he made his way further inside, the cat tucked comfortably under his arm. Voices reached his ears, and he stepped into the living room to find Gerry and Oliver sitting together in front of the coffee table, surrounded by takeout boxes.

“Hey Jon,” Gerry greeted. “How’d things go with the girls?”

“Uh, good,” Jon replied, nodding politely to Oliver. “Sorry, I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Nah, we’re all done,” Gerry assured him, while Oliver flushed beside him. “Just hanging out now. Hungry?”

“Just ate,” Jon replied, and eyed the hallway that led to his bedroom. “Are you sure you don’t want privacy? I wouldn’t want to interrupt…” His voice trailed off uncertainly. “Date night?”

Gerry turned to Oliver, who looked startled to be put on the spot. “Not really a date,” said Oliver.

“Right,” Jon said with a mental shrug. There was still room in his stomach, so he took a samosa and found it to be still warm.

“I was just about to leave anyway, once we finished eating,” Oliver went on. “Plans this evening, you know how it is.”

“Not keeping you, am I?” Gerry asked, his voice carefully neutral.

“Just a DND session,” said Oliver. “I missed the last one for—” His eyes flickered to Jon. “—reasons.”

“Ah.” Jon winced.

“Not your fault.”

“Shit, though, you play DND?” Gerry’s eyebrows rose with interest. “We’ll have to do a session sometime. Interested, Jon?”

“I suppose,” Jon said hesitantly. “Just what I need. Imaginary battles to distract me from the real ones.”

Oliver looked somewhat concerned. Gerry, who was familiar with Jon’s dry humor by now, snorted appropriately and threw a paper napkin at him.

“I’m not even being sarcastic,” Jon went on. “At least in games I get treasure and experience points for winning a fight. Here, I get hospital visits and bad dreams and uncomfortable conversations.”

“Doesn’t seem fair, does it,” Gerry remarked. “If you lose once then you lose everything, but you’ve won five times now and you’ve gotten nothing out of it. Seems to me you’re due a few boons, at least.”

Oliver grimaced. “Careful what you wish for.”

Gerry shot him a confused look. “What?”

The look on Oliver’s face was uncomfortable and grim. “Just saying,” he said quietly. “Just be glad you haven’t needed any yet. If you’re lucky, it’ll stay that way.”

* * *

The call came about twenty minutes into dinner.

Jon...hadn’t _forgotten_ about the whole exes thing, exactly. It was just, the week had been going so well. While the conversation with Martin hadn’t exactly been pleasant, it _had_ been necessary, and finally being able to clear the air with Georgie had taken a load off his shoulders so old and familiar that he’d almost stopped noticing its presence.

For the first time since that first day in the Archives, staring at the haphazard mess with a growing sense of horror, he felt like the damage the Magnus Institute had caused was just a little bit better. Not forgotten of course, but...better.

So he thought it was perfectly understandable that when his phone started buzzing, when the words “unknown caller” appeared on his screen, he froze mid-chew, staring in mute surprise and trepidation.

Gerry glanced curiously between him and the phone, but after a moment the confusion was replaced with grim understanding. He put down his cheese toastie, wiped his mouth on a paper towel, and said,. “Want me to get it?”

Jon cleared his throat. “No, I’ve...I’ve got it.” Tempting as it was to let Gerry handle the smaller, metaphorical battles, he didn’t want him to be even peripherally on Peter’s radar. Much as Gerry liked to pretend otherwise, he wasn’t invincible.

He picked up the phone and held it to his ear. “Hello?”

There was a sharp burst of static from the other end, and Jon winced and held the phone away.

_Put it on speaker,_ Gerry mouthed.

Jon gritted his teeth and mouthed back, _so long as you don’t say anything._ At Gerry’s nod, he tapped the speaker button and laid the phone on the table between them.

The static had died down during that split second exchange, but for some reason Jon couldn’t characterize the lack of sound as _quiet._ There was a sort of awful presence in the air, like how Jane’s worms had been, but no tangible noise. The taste of copper was heavy on the back of Jon’s tongue, and he gripped the table against the vertigo that brushed at the edge of his senses.

After a moment, one of Gerry’s cool, tattooed hands covered his, and when Jon looked over, gunmetal eyes stared calmly back. Whether it be because of the calmness in that gaze or having something else to focus on, he felt at least some of the strangeness fade. Or at least, it didn’t feel quite so overwhelming.

_“Hello Archivist.”_

The voice on the other end was broken, distorted, and sounded like how soap tasted, but it was the words themselves that made his whole world drop out from under him. Gerry’s grip tightened.

“W-What?” Jon gasped, even as his mind struggled to remain fixed in the present.

_“Oh, but that’s not what you are anymore, is it?_ ” There was a giggle, and the sound pierced through Jon’s head, stabbing some primitive part of him he wasn’t even aware existed. _“How unbecoming of you, Archivist, to unbecome.”_

He could feel Gerry’s worried gaze on the side of his head, and he forced himself to rally. “You want to meet, right? For the challenge.”

_“What I want is irrelevant.”_ A long, melodious sigh, scraping like the wind over sharp blades of grass. Jon was struggling to come up with the adjectives to properly describe everything he was hearing and feeling. _“What happens next is dependent upon what_ you _want, Archivist.”_

“Stop calling me that,” Jon gritted out.

_“Apologies, not-Archivist.”_ Another giggle, and his vision momentarily fizzled out. _“Place and time is subjective. Pick wherever, whenever, and I’ll be there.”_

“Fine,” Jon snapped, and hung up the phone.

They sat there for a moment, Gerry’s hand still clutched tight around his. Jon didn’t quite feel attached to his body at the moment, like the connection between his mind and his limbs had been half-severed.

Finally, Gerry released Jon’s hand and muttered, “God, what a prick.”

Jon hummed, and for a moment wondered why the sound had emerged from his throat rather than his toes.

“I’m coming with you, by the way.”

_That_ finally snapped Jon out of his stupor. “You’re what?”

“He said wherever, whenever, right?” Gerry shot him a look that screamed, _don’t try to argue._ “Which means we can schedule a time for when I’m not at work.”

Jon thought about arguing, but then remembered how well that’d gone when Melanie had decided to tag along. Instead he cautiously said, “I mean—sure, you’re welcome to come along, but why…?”

Jon was almost surprised at the sheepish, rueful grin that crossed Gerry’s face. “Martin reminded me that I hadn’t gone to any of the challenges yet. Was a bit rude about it, actually.”

Jon squinted. “Did you deserve it?”

A self-conscious shrug. “Probably. I mean, he was right, so.”

“Right.” Besides the fact that Jon really wished that he could’ve been there for that conversation, he was _immensely_ cheered by the thought of both Martin and Gerry being with him in the aftermath. The phone call had been awful enough; he could only imagine that the challenge itself would be a far more intense version of it. “Well...it’ll be nice to have the both of you along.”

Gerry grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: discussions of past emotional abuse, past unhealthy relationships, past gaslighting, and unethical business practices; implied panic attack, and implied past child abuse
> 
> Next time on the Power of Self Respect: Jonathan Sims and the Infinite Sadness


	7. Jonathan Sims and the Infinite Sadness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed warnings in the end notes.

The red light of the dying sun boiled the undersides of the clouds as they walked toward the abandoned parking lot. The day had been almost exceptionally warm, but the chill was beginning to seep in now that the sun was slipping beneath the horizon. Jon shivered hard, regretting the choice to only wear his oatmeal-colored cardigan.

They’d decided to pick a more secluded location for the sixth challenge. He really wasn’t interested in fielding concerned questions from well-meaning passersby when he inevitably came out the other side in far worse condition than he’d started.

Jon glanced at his partner, walking at an easy lope beside him. Gerry, who’d always been a bit superstitious, had been shooting discomfited glances upward ever since the sun first began to sink, like he was interpreting ill omens out of the bloody sky. He didn’t comment though, as tonight had been hard enough to get off of work, and they weren’t sure when he’d get the opportunity again.

“You don’t have to come,” It came out far more serious than Jon had meant it to, but it had to be said. “There’s still time for you to go home.”

“What?” Gerry looked down at him, his distraction fading like the sun cutting through the morning mist. “Why would I do that?”

Jon gestured vaguely. “I know you don’t entirely approve of...all this. And I _know_ that the idea of...of letting me get hurt while you stand by isn’t your idea of a good time. You could always meet us afterward.”

“Shut up.” The words were quick, instinctive, with a hint of a defiant bite. Jon, who knew when to take Gerry’s temper seriously, kept walking along, forcing himself to wait. Sure enough, a few seconds later, “Sorry, that was...I’ve just been trying not to think about it, you know?”

Jon nodded. He’d only ever been on the receiving end of the exes’ violence, but he could imagine how awful it would feel to be a helpless witness to all this. He’d had enough practice rousing Gerry from screaming nightmares to be intimately acquainted with how terrible it was, the sensation of being able to do nothing to help a loved one in pain.

Gerry favored him with a steady, unimpressed look. “I’ll be fine. You should worry about yourself.”

“If you’re sure.”

Gerry hummed a vague agreement. “How are _you_ feeling, by the way?”

Jon carefully avoided his gaze. “Like you said. Just trying not to think about it.”

Gerry let out a low, humorless laugh at that, and gave Jon’s shoulders a tight squeeze. “No matter what else happens, Martin and I will be there the whole time. Speaking of, where is he?”

Jon frowned and fished his phone out of his pocket to check his notifications, relaxing when he read the most recent message. “He left not too long ago, but he should be here soon. I hope that whoever it is doesn’t decide to start the challenge early.”

“That’s what happened with Jane, right?” Gerry’s voice was mild and curious. “She just…” he waved his fingers. “...got the ground to swallow you up?”

Jon nodded. “Melanie said they didn’t even realize that I’d gone at first. They just turned around and...poof.”

“Huh.”

“‘Place and time is subjective,’” Jon quoted, shaking his head in disgust. “I get that that means time and place doesn’t matter, but there are better ways to _say_ that.”

“Like I said.” Gerry rocked back on his heels, jamming his hands into his pockets. _“Prick.”_

“I do hope that you’re not talking about me.”

Jon and Gerry leapt away from the voice in unison. Actually, it was more appropriate to say that Gerry smoothly turned and backed away, arm stretched out protectively, while Jon scrambled so gracelessly that he almost fell over.

Annabelle Cane stood before them, her lips twisted into a light smirk. She was as impeccably dressed as ever, in a black, high-waisted jumpsuit, a sparkling silver web hair piece perched in her curly hair. Silver highlights glittered along her cheekbones, studded with small, purple rhinestones.

“Annabelle,” Gerry growled, drawing himself up to his full height.

Unfortunately Annabelle was wearing her high heels, which meant that she was a couple of inches taller than him. Her smirk widened at his efforts, and then her gaze slid unerringly toward Jon. “The whole guard dog routine is cute and all, but I’d like to talk to Jon.”

Jon’s throat remained stubbornly dry no matter how many times he swallowed. This was the _last_ thing he needed, not with the sixth challenge right around the corner. “We’re busy. We can talk later.”

Annabelle’s expression didn’t darken exactly, but suddenly it felt as though there was a sharp undertone to her polite mien. “But Jon, you always seem to be busy whenever I come by. You wouldn’t happen to be _avoiding_ me, would you?”

“No idea where you could’ve gotten _that_ impression,” Gerry snapped back.

“Gerry, hold on,” Jon murmured, gently pushing his partner’s arm down, which had still been thrown protectively in front of him. He stepped forward determinedly, and for the first time in almost two years, looked Annabelle in the eye. “What do you want?”

Annabelle raised a cool eyebrow. “What I’ve always wanted.”

“To help me, yes,” Jon snapped back impatiently. “But the last time we spoke to one another, you advised me against quitting the shit job that was actively ruining my life. So forgive me for not being interested in the sort of help you’re offering, whatever it is.”

For a moment, the self-assured confidence on Annabelle’s face faded into something a bit more grim, a cloud passing over the sun. Then she shook herself, the smile firmly back in place. “Yes, I can see why you might be feeling a bit hesitant. But I promise, nothing I’ve done was without reason, and when you hear what I have to say, you _will_ be interested.”

Gerry shifted and lifted his eyebrows, unimpressed. “That’s a bold claim to make.”

“An honest one,” Annabelle shot back. “Because Jon, listen. What makes you think that Elias is done with you?”

Jon froze.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Gerry snapped, looming as best he could, despite his somewhat lanky frame. “You get to leave now.”

“You’ll be wanting my help,” Annabelle continued, her voice so earnest that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “Elias is powerful, but I know how to unravel his web, so to speak.”

“I haven’t heard from Elias in two years,” Jon rasped, feeling as though his own voice was coming from a great distance. “He’s—no. You’re wrong.” _She has to be wrong._

Gerry glanced over at Jon, the worry in his eyes plain to those who knew how to look. “ _Goodbye,_ Annabelle.”

Annabelle raised a placating hand, still wearing that confident, indulgent smile. “Alright, alright. I can see where I’m not wanted.” Her eyes crinkled. “I expect that I’ll be seeing you soon. You know where to find me.”

“You won’t,” Jon responded, but it was quieter than he meant for it to be.

He felt relief coursing through him as she turned to leave, her heels clicking smartly against the concrete—until she let out a delighted noise and said, “Oh, and _you_ must be Martin!”

Fear ballooned in Jon’s chest, stealing all the space where his breath used to go, and he froze.

“Oh, um...hi?” There was a question in Martin’s eyes as he glanced nervously over at Jon. “I don’t think that we’ve met?”

“Annabelle Cane.” Annabelle primly extended a hand for Martin to shake, winking. “I won’t be offended if Jon hasn’t mentioned me. We don’t always see eye to eye.”

Martin took Annabelle’s hand, clearly on autopilot. Even as they shook though, his brow darkened as he took in the words Annabelle had just said, the way Gerry was holding himself, the expression on Jon’s face. His eyes narrowed. “I see.”

Annabelle let go and gave the three of them a jaunty wave. “Well, it’s been absolutely lovely, boys, but I must be going.”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Gerry muttered at her retreating back.

For a moment they all stood there in silence, watching her walk away.

Then Jon wet his lips and hesitantly pointed out, “Gerry, there’s—there’s no door.”

Gerry groaned and rolled his eyes. “I _know,_ I know. I was trying to come up with something clever but I couldn’t think of anything. I _hate_ it when she gets the last word.”

“Who _was_ that?” Martin asked.

“Old coworker,” Jon said shortly. “Like she said, we don’t usually see eye to eye, but our last disagreement concerned my decision to quit the Institute.”

The confusion immediately turned into understanding. “Ah. You okay?”

Jon shrugged one dismissive shoulder. “Yes, yes, I just...wasn’t expecting to see her. I’ll be fine.”

“Good.” Martin was visibly relieved. “So. This is the place you picked?”

“Yes. Figured it might be a good idea to limit collateral damage, just in case.” Jon fished out his phone again. “Though, how I’m supposed to know when he gets here, I don’t… oh. That’s odd.”

“What’s wrong?” Martin asked.

“My phone just died.” Jon scowled down at the screen as he attempted to turn it back on. “Doesn’t make any sense. I _know_ I just charged this before I left.”

“Oh, you can borrow mine, if you want to take one in with… you…” Martin’s voice trailed off when he pulled out his own phone. “Huh. That’s… so’s mine.”

“Jon,” Gerry cut in, and the tone of his voice was so strained and uncertain that Jon immediately turned to look at him. “About that door…”

Jon almost immediately saw what he meant, and for a moment was too befuddled by the sight to do anything but stare. A faded yellow door was standing inexplicably upright in the middle of the parking lot, despite the fact that there were no buildings nearby, despite the fact that there had been nothing there just minutes before. It just...wasn’t possible.

“You two are seeing that, right?” Jon asked, voice pitched an octave higher than normal. “I’m not just…”

“That’s definitely a door,” Gerry agreed immediately, shaken.

Martin let out a low sigh, drawing all attention to him. “That’s as good as an invitation. He wants you to come inside.”

“But there’s nothing _there,”_ Gerry protested.

“It leads to his domain, doesn’t it,” said Jon dully, who’d become used to this whole business, and knew what to expect.

“Most likely,” Martin responded. “Michael always felt most comfortable engaging with people in his own space, quite literally.”

Jon frowned, surprised. “Another Michael?”

Martin laughed. “Yes, although I think that I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to Michaels.”

 _Ah._ Another name to add to Jon’s shit list, which had grown exponentially ever since the start of this whole exes thing.

Gerry gave the door a speculative look. “Do you think we’ll be allowed through as well?”

Martin shifted uncomfortably. “I genuinely doubt it. Michael prefers—” A brief, considering pause. “Preferred? I haven’t seen him in some time, but...he had a thing for one-on-one attention. Both, uh, giving it _and_ receiving it. Honestly he just really liked attention.”

Gerry grimaced. “Probably easier to influence someone if they don’t have a second opinion, too.”

 _Oh._ That...made sense, considering the way Gerry’s presence had steadied him during that earlier phone call. By the look on Martin’s face, he was coming to a few realizations of his own.

Martin caught him staring, and managed a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I actually… things weren’t too bad, with Michael? He was mostly exciting, and… not really sustainable, in hindsight.” He winced. “Could’ve done without the breakup via text, but nobody’s perfect.”

“Prick,” said Gerry, almost automatically, and Jon had to grin.

He might as well take comfort while he still could, considering that it was unlikely that Gerry or Martin would be allowed to accompany him.

When he looked up, he saw the same thoughts reflected back at him in the form of trepidation and grim resignation on Martin and Gerry’s faces respectively.

They were worried about him, and he needed to _pull himself together._ He’d done the challenges alone before, he could manage another one, no matter how much the idea frightened him. At least he knew that they would be there when he finished, which was better than nothing.

Jon steeled himself, stepped forward, and wrapped Martin in a hug. There was a surprised pause, and then he was being hugged firmly back. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

Martin’s temple tilted against Jon’s forehead, warm breath ruffling his bangs. “You better.”

They stood there for a moment longer, before Jon forced himself to release Martin and take a step back so he didn’t do something stupid like hold onto him forever. Then he turned to Gerry, and pointedly extended his arms.

Gerry just looked at him for a moment, gaze crawling over the visible scars on his arm, the chunky cardigan, the loosely braided hair. “You’ll try not to get too hurt.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “I may not have much say in the matter.”

“But you’ll _try,”_ Gerry insisted.

“Yes, yes.” Jon pointedly wiggled his fingers. “I’ll do my best. Now, will you get over here?”

There was an uncertain beat, and then he had an armful of his best friend, who smelled faintly of incense and something that he could only associate with _home._

Then he let out a great sigh and pulled away, turning to face the door. The more he looked, the more he was sure that something was very wrong with it, besides it existing independent of any of the structures it would normally be attached to. It was like his vision couldn’t quite make sense of what he was seeing, like… like he was viewing an optical illusion but wasn’t sure what the trick was yet.

He straightened his shoulders and marched forward, ignoring the strangely textured knob as he pushed the door open. Just as he’d expected, there was only an inky black darkness, obscuring his view of what lay ahead.

 _Nothing for it._ He took a deep breath, and stepped through—

—only to pitch forward into empty air as his foot slipped through the space where there should’ve been solid ground.

* * *

For a terrifying moment, he thought of the rooftop that Mike Crew had threatened to throw him from, and the endless fall it promised. Then the moment ended when his feet hit the ground a short distance below, hard enough to jar his ankles without spraining them. It left him uninjured but off-balance, stumbling blindly in his new surroundings.

He was in a hallway. Not overly cramped and claustrophobic, thankfully, but it was still jarring when he’d been in an empty parking lot the last time he’d checked. The walls were papered over in pastel paisley, just bright enough to be vaguely uncomfortable to look at. The carpets weren’t much better; he was fairly certain he’d seen a pattern like that on a dingy arcade floor.

Jon glanced up to the door he’d come through, then looked down again. It was positioned normally, flush with the floor where doors belonged. There was no drop. The ceiling wasn’t high enough to allow for one.

He had barely found his footing when laughter rang out, oddly pitched and echoing from all sides in ways that the carpeting should have negated. Without warning, the hallway rotated. The wall became the floor, and the floor—which Jon had been standing on, thank you very much—turned vertical.

This time, he didn’t manage to land on his feet. The laughter continued, heightened this time, and it was all Jon could do to curl into a ball and protect his head with his arms until it finally subsided.

Battered and dizzy, Jon struggled to his feet again and put one hand to the wall—formerly the ceiling—to keep his balance.

“What do you think of my maze, Archivist?” The voice seemed to emanate from everywhere at once, the smooth cadence of it twisting and folding over itself like pulled taffy.

Jon gritted his teeth, touching his fingers to his temple, trying to focus. “It’s awful.” He paused for a moment, anticipating some sort of response. When none was forthcoming, he pointedly asked, “So, I just have to get out? Is that it?”

“That _is_ generally the point of a maze,” Michael said, and although it was difficult to read him, Jon could’ve sworn that his voice was a touch cooler than before.

“Right,” Jon said, nodding slowly. “Right.”

“Although if you fail to entertain me, I might make it harder for you.” And then Michael giggled, high and discordant—

Jon let out a shout as the hallway rotated again, and he was thrown to the floor like a piece of clothing being tumbled about in a washing machine. _Every time he laughs,_ Jon realized distantly, _the hallway flips._ Perhaps he should’ve been pleased at solving such a mystery, but he was too busy trying to tamp down on the nausea the constant recentering of his gravity was causing.

As soon as the dizziness subsided, he staggered upright and shouted at the ceiling that had once been a wall, “Will you _stop that?”_

“Can a fish stop swimming?” It was clearly a rhetorical question, but it made Jon grit his teeth in frustration. “I’m afraid not.”

Jon bit down on the incoherent scream of rage that threatened to bubble up from within. _It’ll probably only make the prick laugh again,_ Jon thought, and quirked a smile as Gerry’s voice echoed the word, _prick._

 _Okay._ He drew himself up to his full height and took a steadying breath. _Let’s do this._

Although he’d never done them before, he theoretically knew how to solve mazes. Keep your hand pressed to a wall, whether it be left or right, and follow it to the conclusion. He was...relatively certain that wouldn’t work in this situation, especially considering that the maze had a hazy definition of what was considered to be a direction. Staying in one place wouldn’t get him anywhere; his best bet was to start walking and keep an eye out for some sort of pattern.

The idea of running around aimlessly didn’t sit well with him, but he didn’t know what else to do. So he faced forward—what currently passed as forward, that is—and set off down the hallway.

Jon was so focused on walking in a straight line—it was hard, when the walls shimmered like an optical illusion as he moved—that he almost jumped out of his skin when Michael said, “I’m growing bored, Archivist.”

Jon opened his mouth to snap, _do I look like a bloody in-flight movie to you?_ before remembering that he was at the mercy of this person, and it would probably be best not to anger him. He shut his mouth, swallowed, and politely asked, “What would you like to talk about, then?”

Michael hummed thoughtfully, and Jon took the opportunity to dither at the center of the intersection, trying to decide which way to go. He’d just decided to turn right when Michael suddenly said, “I wouldn’t go that way if I were you,” and giggled again.

Jon had a split second to assess— _ground slipping out from under his feet, the hallway to the left becoming a sickening drop in the floor_ —and react— _hallway in front of you becoming ledge to land on, reach out to catch it, quickly now_ —

A moment later he found himself shaking, clinging to the ledge, his breath coming in harsh, terrified pants. His legs scrabbled uselessly against the wall, searching for any sort of purchase, while his elbows screamed painfully from catching his full weight. The brief span of time it took to drag himself over the top of the ledge felt like the longest moments of his life, and he simply laid there for a moment, his heart thundering in his chest.

“I told you,” Michael said giddily. “I told you that I could make it harder for you.”

Jon licked his lips, waiting until he could be sure that his limbs—and voice—wouldn’t shake, before painstakingly pushing upright. “I can see that,” he rasped, huddling against the wall. Just in case the world tilted again.

“I will admit, seeing you thrown about is _very_ entertaining,” Michael continued, delight coloring his voice a poisonous purple. “I wouldn’t mind—”

“How did you and Martin meet?” Jon interrupted, cringing in anticipation even before he’d finished speaking. “You two seem...very different.”

There was a breathless pause as Michael seemed to consider this. Then, thoughtfully, “I suppose it doesn’t make much sense, does it. Someone such as myself dating someone like _Martin.”_

Jon grimaced at the way Michael said Martin’s name, but relaxed enough to tentatively push away from the wall slightly and start shuffling forward again.

“I was looking for something new, I suppose.” Michael sounded almost wistful. “I tend to keep the company like minded people—those with _artistic_ inclinations, that is. But after a certain point they became...dull. I suppose you would expect that artists are always brimming with a fount of unique creativity, but spend enough time with them and you’ll find that what they consider to be fresh and unique is actually all the same flavor of unoriginal drivel.”

 _Prick,_ Jon thought darkly, before focusing his attention on the two routes before him. The left option looked no better than the right, and he could see no difference in markings on either side. Eventually he decided to go left, walking carefully in case of another giggle.

Then he realized that the silence had gone on for a bit too long for comfort, and that he was probably supposed to give some sort of input. He frantically ran over what had just been said, and tossed out, “But Martin’s an artist, isn’t he? A poet.”

Jon’s heart dropped into his toes the second he heard the first crack of the migraine giggle. He curled into a tight ball as the world tilted around him, as he landed hard on his shoulder.

“Oh, Archivist,” Michael sighed while Jon got back to his feet, now more resigned than anything. “Martin may be a poet, but he’s not an _artist.”_

 _Prick, prick, prick, prick,_ Jon chanted in his head. Out loud he said, “I see.”

“I got my hopes up, when I had the pleasure of meeting Jane,” Michael went on, heedless of what was going on in Jon’s head. “She certainly made for an exciting start to a relationship. The only good romance is a tempestuous one, you know. But she gave up far too quickly, when her little friends didn’t send me screaming. And Martin himself wasn’t nearly as exciting on his own. Though, I suppose that’s what drew me to him, back then. For someone with my lifestyle, the pedestrian is positively _novel_.”

 _Positively novel,_ Jon mouthed to himself scornfully. The hallway juddered around him as if in warning, and he quickly wiped the sneer off his face.

“He was very dear, though,” Michael went on. “Eager to please _and_ easy to please. Very pleasant. That was what it all was, in the end. Pleasant.”

“I’ve gathered,” Jon replied, with what he thought was reasonable composure.

Michael sighed again. “But that’s the trouble, isn’t it. Once you get past the novelty of these things, they start to wear off. You won’t have noticed yet, but you will soon enough. Eventually you have to move on, or spend the rest of your life plodding through identical days. Which is good enough for some, I suppose. Good enough for Martin. Probably good enough for you, as well. But the rest of us can’t be satisfied with that sort of thing. It’s a shame, but, better for both of us in the long run.”

The laughter that followed was blessedly brief, and merely dumped Jon on the wall he’d already been leaning on.

“Better for me, certainly!” Michael said brightly, as Jon struggled back to his feet. “Otherwise, I might be in _your_ shoes. Can you imagine the trouble I’d be in now, if it had been serious?”

 _Now who’s being unoriginal?_ Jon thought sourly. Parts of his rhetoric were strikingly similar to Mike’s.

The whole time they’d been talking, the way in front of Jon began to slope gently upward and to the right, but the ceiling didn’t shift with it, something he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around until his head bumped against it. He hesitated, trying to decide whether or not he should go back, before ducking his head and trudging onward. The more he walked the narrower the space got, the more it twisted, until he was unable to comfortably go any further, stuck on his hands and knees and tilted at almost a forty five degree angle.

Horrifyingly, laughter began to echo all around him, but his back was pressed up against the ceiling, so he just spun in dizzying circles. Looking at the walls made him want to throw up, and he slammed his eyes shut and waited for it to be over, which seemed to take forever in this horrible, nebulous reality he now existed in.

“Stuck are we, Archivist?” Michael purred, voice still drenched in mirth.

 _Okay,_ Jon thought as his stomach settled, as his current position—slumped on his side, pressed against one wall, the hallway back to its normal proportions—sank in. _Enough of this. I can’t focus when he’s laughing._

He heaved himself back to his feet and said, voice hard, “I think you don’t know what you’re missing out on, actually. Martin is anything but _boring.”_

Another laugh that was edged sharp, but Jon had been expecting it this time, and recovered quickly. He began to walk through the maze, hardly paying attention to which direction he was going. “Like I said, good enough for _you_.” Michael’s sneer was nearly audible. “I’m afraid that I need someone who is capable of conversation a bit more...stimulating.”

“Stimulating?” Jon asked ruthlessly, silently cursing when a turn took him down another twisting, impossible corridor. “Like those other artists you were talking about? What definition are you using here, exactly?”

Ugly laughter rippled through the maze, and for a second the pastel paisley of the walls flashed dark and _wrong._ Jon got to his feet and grimly thought, _well, that got his attention._

“You wouldn’t understand.” And oh, there were knives flaying the insides of Jon’s ears and pins nipping at his ankles. The world swayed and juddered beneath him, for all that the hallway itself didn’t visibly change. “You’re not even—even a _poser_ of an artist, you’re just a narrow-minded academic who hasn’t had an original thought in his life, ripping off the research of everyone who’s come before you—”

“You’re one to talk,” Jon snapped. “This place looks like the Magic Eye painting threw up on an _Inception_ set piece.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ” The walls flared with eye-bleeding colors again.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Jon broke in, shutting his watery eyes against the glare. “I’m genuinely curious. What are you looking for in a relationship? You know, I’ve been through some support groups. Maybe we can figure this one out.”

Vertigo struck like a hammer to the skull, turning his thoughts inside out. He might have been nauseous, if his head were in any state to feel anything. “Excitement, of course! _Spontaneity,_ Archivist. If I admire a necklace in a shop window, the last thing I want for a gift is the necklace.” The labyrinth grew more tangled, more incomprehensible. “I want to be surprised. And that’s the problem with dating the same person, no matter how beautiful they are at first sight. Eventually you grow used to them. Eventually people just stop surprising you. You and Martin and all your friends, maybe you’re content to settle for that. But some of us want a little more out of life.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Jon interrupted, so dizzy that he had to prop himself up against a wall. “But the lens through which you view the world is influenced by your own character and perception. If you see everything as dull, wouldn’t that be more of a _you_ problem?”

For a single, blessed moment, the labyrinth went still.

“I beg your pardon?” said Michael.

“I’ve often heard it said,” Jon went on, dizzy and in pain and eager to bite back, “that if you run into the same problem across multiple relationships, then perhaps the problem isn’t with everyone else.” He coughed. “Personally, _I’m_ getting a little bored of _this_.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Oh, Archivist,” Michael sighed, and there was something wrong with his voice, something intangible that touched a long-buried, primal fear response in his brain. “And we were having _such_ a good time.”

The paisley was awash in that wrongness again, the world tipping and twisting about him like a—like a ship lost at sea, like fabric folding in and over itself, like—like nothing he’d ever experienced before. At least the laughter had been predictable; this was just a random, discordant layering of sensation and texture.

Jon gasped as the corridor tightened to a fine point, squeezing him into far too little space, until he felt as though he might burst or suffocate—and then he was free to gasp and struggle for air. The ground beneath him rippled, but he forced himself to walk onward, to make _some_ sort of progress, even as the maze turned the full force of its aggression upon him.

“I can understand why you found Martin comforting,” Michael crooned, but there was nothing soft about it. “That’s what he is, isn’t it? Comforting. _Safe._ You’ve never really been safe though.” Laughter again, and Jon’s world stretched into a miasma-like haze that didn’t resolve until well after it had stopped. “I can’t believe you haven’t figured it out yet. How is any of this Peter’s _style?”_

“What?” Jon asked, the words coming out faint and distorted, even as he urged his shivering limbs to keep moving. What was that supposed to mean? He’d never even met Peter, much less learned anything about his “style”. What was there to figure out?

Except…

Martin had been wondering, hadn’t he. He’d covered his tracks, made as clean a getaway as he could manage, and somehow Peter had found him anyway.

“Coordinating people, _blackmail.”_ Michael scoffed. “Hardly the modus operandi of some rich bore who can’t keep his hands to himself. Besides, Peter’s too much of a recluse, he’d rather sail his ship to sea and mope.” His voice turned sharp, lashing out like technicolor whip-cracks. “But it’s not as if he has a monopoly on privilege and pettiness! And you _do_ know someone who excels in those areas! Don’t you? Or did you even stop to think? Why now? Why _you?_ Two years isn’t _that_ long, is it? Or are you just stupid enough to think he would _ever let you go?”_

 _Elias?_ Jon wondered blankly, freezing in place. _But—no, that doesn’t make any_ sense _. It’s been two years, he must’ve—must’ve given up by now surely._ Except….Annabelle had said the same thing, hadn’t she?

Fuck. Maybe Jon should’ve listened to what she had to say.

“It’s quite funny, if you think about it!” Michael went on, razor-edged with glee. “All this time, thinking you were struggling and suffering just to clean up after Martin’s mess. And it wasn’t his mess at all. It was _yours_.”

The maze blossomed before him, splitting off into twisting, tangled paths that Jon’s eyes couldn’t possibly follow. No way out, no way back, no up or down or direction of any kind.

“Just think,” Michael crowed at him from everywhere and nowhere at once. “He might have gone on to have a wonderfully boring, happy life. None of us would ever have troubled him again, not myself or Jared or Peter or any of the others, if only he hadn’t had the misfortune of meeting _you_.”

“Shut up,” Jon whispered, reaching for something to hold onto, for _anything_ to put the world back into something he could make sense of. His vision fractured and mutated, and he was impossibly lost.

“It’s just like you said, isn’t it? That if you run into the same problem in multiple relationships, then the problem is _you._ And every connection that you’ve tried to maintain has gone all _rotten,”_ and here the world contracted, twisting up around his limbs, before loosening again, “because of you. Your family wanted nothing more than to be rid of you, your old girlfriend _left_ you, your best friend loses sleep over you, and now Martin _hates_ you and it’s all your _fault!”_

And for a moment, the words almost landed. For a moment, the tangled paths dissolved into despair, and the world vanished from beneath his feet, and he felt like he was about to do nothing more than weep for an eternity. Because it was his fault, wasn’t it? He’d been a difficult child, then a cruel boyfriend, then the one who’d caused Martin’s worst nightmares to become reality. Even Gerry was hurting because of his choices.

This was his doing.

_Except._

Martin didn’t hate him.

Martin had said that he wanted to keep this _,_ that there _would_ be a next date. Martin had reached to him for comfort, had listened and trusted and been understanding when he had every reason not to be. Martin always, _always_ smiled when Jon started to ramble, and he was good to Jon and _for_ Jon, and if Michael was telling the truth then Martin was lying, which—

A bright golden thread flared in Jon’s vision, and he grasped it tight, wrapped it twice around his wrist so that he wouldn’t lose it.

“You’re _lying,”_ Jon rasped, and walked confidently forward, letting the thread guide him.

“N-No I’m not,” Michael said, his confidence dissolving like snow in the sun. “I’m—stop. Stop doing that!”

“No,” Jon said, tugging pointedly. The path beneath his feet wasn’t steady, but it was still a path. A way _forward_. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“Well, maybe he doesn’t hate you _now.”_ The thread wavered as Michael’s words went sharp again, aiming to sever. “But he will when he finds out about Elias.”

Jon couldn’t help but laugh at the pathetic attempt. “I think you should stop projecting _your_ behavior onto everyone else. Not everyone is as petty as you are, especially not Martin.”

Martin would be upset, possibly angry. They’d have to talk about it after they reunited. But Jon knew Martin well enough by now to be pretty confident that there would be no _hatred._

The thread went taut, as though dismissing the second lie had done something to make the way more clear. Jon hurried his steps, eager to be free of this hellscape and the absolute _prick_ who ran it.

Eager to go home.

Jon turned a corner, and there it was at the other end of the hallway—a yellow door, still painted in that soft, pastel tone from earlier. Michael’s wails of rage echoed all around, but he ignored them, breaking into a run, a grin spreading across his face.

 _Gerry is going to think this is hilarious,_ Jon thought. _I can’t wait to tell him and Martin about it._

The challenge hadn’t even been that bad. Disorienting yes, but he’d come out the end with hardly a scratch on him.

He slowed as he reached the door, smoothly twisting the knob to leave—

To leave—

Twisting the—

Wait a second.

Jon jerked the doorknob, frowning when it didn’t budge. “Michael?”

Dead silence. He turned around, but all he could see was the still roiling paisley mass that had once been the maze, twisting and folding in on itself, over and over again.

“Michael, this isn’t funny.” He slammed a fist against the door, then again. “Let me out.”

“No.”

Jon turned around again and froze in his tracks, staring at the strange person who’d inexplicably appeared behind him. They were very tall, with soft blond curls and strange, multi-colored eyes, and they were very, very _wrong._

“No,” said Michael, his skin beginning to melt and drip like wet paint. “You weren’t very polite, were you? You don’t _get_ to leave.”

Jon pressed his back against the door, swallowing the sour taste of bile. “You said I just had to get to the other end,” he gasped. “You _promised.”_

Michael’s smile widened, his teeth dripping from his mouth and clattering onto the warped floor. Even as Jon watched, the corneas of his eyes began to bleed into the iris’, the whole coagulated mass of them sinking to the back of his skull. “I promised nothing, _Archivist.”_

And then his body devoured itself, peeling and warping and pitting into a monstrous nightmare of flesh and muscle and sinew and—

For a moment Jon shut his eyes and pressed the side of his face against the door, clamping his hand around his mouth to stifle the building scream. Then he released his mouth and rested his fist against the door, keeping the other clenched around the knob.

 _Gerry and Martin are waiting on the other side,_ Jon thought as the domain around him buckled, as the forking paths twisted over and around each other, devouring like Ouroboros consuming his own tail, spelling its inevitable end.

And so he began to knock.

* * *

At first, Gerry mistook the knocking for something else.

He and Martin had been making small talk on and off, though the effort was somewhat hampered by the fact that they were both worried about Jon. Remaining silent meant that they would be left alone to their thoughts though, so they did their best to make conversation as much as they could

The first knock, Gerry dismissed as the regular white noise of the distant city. The second had him pausing, but ultimately ignoring it again. The third time Martin turned to him with a confused frown and hesitantly said, “Do you... _hear_ that?”

“Yeah,” Gerry finally forced himself to pay attention. “Can you tell where it’s coming from?”

Martin’s frown deepened, and he slowly began to turn, eyes scanning the empty parking lot. “I’m not _entirely_ sure? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that it was—”

The yellow door, which had remained inert ever since Jon had disappeared inside not ten minute before, suddenly burst to life. It rattled so hard under the force of whoever was pounding on it that Gerry was sure it was about to come right off his hinges.

He had about two seconds to wonder what _that_ was all about before he saw Martin tearing across the pavement as fast as his legs could carry him. Then the implications clicked, and Gerry let out a quiet curse and sprinted after.

Before they were able to reach it, the door gave one last resounding rattle and then dissolved into nothing. A figure stood in its wake, and Gerry immediately recognized that startling thinness, the silver gleam of the spectacles, the long, black hair prematurely shot through with grey.

“Jon!” Martin shouted, and then Jon collapsed to the pavement like a puppet whose strings had just been cut.

Martin had gotten a head start, but Gerry was faster, so he was the one who ended up skidding his knees across the gravel and hard earth as he dropped to Jon’s side. “Hey,” Gerry said, tossing Jon’s arm over one shoulder to help him up. “Let’s get you standing, yeah?”

It took him a moment to notice that there was something strangely...limp about that arm, something odd about the way Jon was voicing no protest at being manhandled. Gerry paused, frowning, and carefully lowered Jon back down, his stomach giving a little lurch when he realized that Jon was passed out cold.

“Gerry?” Martin asked uncertainly.

“He’s just unconscious, one second.” Gerry studied Jon a moment longer, and that’s when another alarming detailed revealed itself to him:

Jon wasn’t breathing.

Breath trapped somewhere in his throat, Gerry slipped Jon’s glasses off his face. He held them beneath Jon’s nose, watching carefully for any sign of fog on the lenses. Then he leaned over and pressed his ear to Jon’s chest, then two fingers against his throat.

_Where’s his heartbeat?_

“Gerry?” Martin asked again, voice pitched an octave higher than normal.

Their phones were dead, and by the time anyone got here, it might be too late.

Gerry didn’t look up, just set the glasses aside, pressed his clasped hands over Jon’s sternum, and began to apply compressions. His stomach turned at the sensation of cartilage breaking beneath his hands, but he gritted his teeth and kept going. _One, two, three, four, five,_ all the way up to thirty, and then he leaned over, pinched Jon’s nose, and puffed two hard breaths into his mouth. Jon’s chest rose and fell twice, but no more than that.

They’d kissed once, early on in their relationship, both of them tipsy, content, and curious to explore their growing closeness. It had only taken one for them to conclude that it wasn’t for them, and for all that they’d joked about it later, it made them less shy about affection. Gerry often pressed comforting little kisses into his hair, and Jon sometimes did the same, and he couldn’t believe that he was _thinking_ about this right now.

_One, two, three, four, five…_

He heard Martin draw in a shuddering breath behind him, but he ignored it, unwilling to turn his attention away from this task for even a moment. His arms began to burn as he repeated the process over and over, and then he began to lose count as the compressions and the breaths and the numbness washed together. There was nothing more important than this, if he stopped then that meant Jon was dead and _nothing would be okay._

_One, two, three, four, five…_

Gerry’s breathing began to grow ragged and harsh, and his lungs ached and his head spun like he’d just tried to run a marathon. He couldn’t feel his arms anymore, or the bruised mess he’d tangled his fingers into, or the sharp stones digging into his knees. He almost didn’t notice when Martin’s hand dropped onto his shoulder, whether intended for comfort or stability, he couldn’t stay. Still he pressed on.

_One, two, three, four, five…_

Gerry leaned over and pressed his mouth to Jon’s again, but the air wheezed painfully out of him, not even disturbing the thin chest. A wave of dizziness sent him listing sideways, straining his eyes against the darkness that crept in. His arms shook from the effort of trying to pump life back into his best friend, and he bowed there, physically unable to go any further.

Martin was crying. It was quiet, almost polite, but it echoed around the empty space, bouncing off the crumbling brick walls, the cracked pavement. It was all Gerry could hear, other than his own thin gasps.

And then he heard the quiet crunch of footsteps, the soft sigh of a breath gently exhaled.

“I’m sorry it had to be this way,” someone said, soft and sympathetic.

Martin didn’t respond, just kept up that awful, inconsolable sobbing. Gerry stared blankly at the twisting paths of Jon’s cardigan, the little wisps of wool that had begun to gather in the fabric.

“Let’s get you somewhere a bit more pleasant, hm?” the voice coaxed, gravel scraping as it shifted underfoot.

The words penetrated the thick, darkened fog in Gerry’s brain, forcing him back to the present as if dragging him through thick mud. He turned around, just in time to see Martin tear-streaked face as mist gathered around both him and the gray-bearded man standing beside him.

Alarm bells went off in his mind, muted and off-key, but enough to drive him to action. His arms ached, his body was sluggish—how long had he been performing CPR? Minutes? Hours? Days?

It didn’t matter. In the end, he’d barely managed to drag himself up before the fog descended, so thick that it was nearly opaque. It vanished just as quickly, taking both Martin and the stranger with it.

And just like that, Gerry was left unmoored in the middle of that empty parking lot, alone except for Jon’s cooling body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Emotional manipulation, brief claustrophobia, disorientation, bullying/taunting, body horror, CPR, major character death.

**Author's Note:**

> From Ice:
> 
>  _taps microphone_ hello tma fandom
> 
> YES i know i just started two multichapter fics but when given the opportunity to do a collab with pit i simply could not help myself. it's been an absolute blast and i hope you all enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it :)
> 
> From Pit:
> 
> All I said was "hey wouldn't it be interesting if Jane was Martin's toxic ex in a No Spooky Institute AU situation?" and now we're here. It's a good place to be. :) Hope you guys like it.


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